


The Art Of Maintaining Moral Ambiguity

by rosaecae



Series: east coast kid [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beach Town, Bipolar Ian, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Open Relationships, Pining, Sex Work, Slow Burn, Stripper Ian, Stripping, Summer Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension, i'll update tags when ik wtf i'm doing lol, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 110,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9304943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosaecae/pseuds/rosaecae
Summary: AU in which Mickey was raised in a shitty New Jersey beach town and Ian just wanted to see the ocean.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was writing this as an independent thing but then I realized that it's...so Gallavich. So hey, my first Gallavich fic. How ya doin'.

The summer Mickey met him was the same summer that he realized, with insignificant suddenness, that the ocean is not blue. Everyone tells you it’s blue. They all think it’s blue, they all paint it blue, speak it blue, sing it blue, dream it blue, but it isn’t. Not on a sunny day, not on a stormy day, the ocean is not blue. He notices it, as he stares out at the silky roughness of the Atlantic Ocean, that it’s green. It’s gray. It’s brown. But never blue. Maybe the slightest hint blue, if at all, but only through immense power of suggestion. And with this realization, as you stare into the ripples of the Atlantic, you start to wonder where this illusion came from, and if the sky reflects the water, why is the sky that unmistakable, hopeful shade of bright azure we all know and love?

“The ocean is green,” Mickey says, leaning against the warm, eroded wood lining the boardwalk. He blinks at the reflection of the sun on the waves, and Mandy wipes sweat from her forehead. Her angled, black eyebrows scrunch together, and her pale skin glows from the salt in the air.

“What?” she answers after a drag on the half-crumpled cigarette in her fingers.

“The ocean,” Mickey repeats, “it’s green.”

“Ain’t green everywhere,” she responds. “Gulf of Mexico ain’t green.”

“How the fuck do you know?”

“I’ve seen it.”

Mickey snorts. “You haven’t been south of Virginia.”

Mandy coughs and crosses on arm across her chest. “Well, on Google, ya know, I’ve seen pictures. Why’s it matter, anyway?”

Mickey shrugs. “Dunno. Everyone’s always tellin’ ya that it’s blue. But it isn’t.”

Mandy sniffs. Her blue eyes search the ocean for an argument, her thick black hair wavy from the salty air. “Yeah. I guess not.”

The water’s rough today; lifeguards wave the tourists out if they don’t have a surfboard.

Mandy taps her uneven nails softly on the fence line; she balances the cigarette delicately between two fingers and Mickey clutches his nametag between his own. He checks his watch. Five minutes before his break ends.

“Give me that.” She hands him the cigarette. He takes a thick draw.

“Nasty habit,” a wrinkled, over powdered woman jeers in passing.

“Whatever kills me the fastest,” Mickey mutters to the ground. He’s off-duty. Four more minutes. He glances at the “no smoking on boardwalk” sign and puffs on the cigarette again.

“What’s the date?” Mandy asks.

“Tourists won’t be gone for another three and a half months, Mands.”

Her response is a deep sigh.

Three more minutes.

A girl from their neighborhood passes by in the uniform shirt of a scam tourist shop a few blocks down the boardwalk. She waves, her big eyes tired. The siblings wave back silently. She steps out of the way for the tram. Two more minutes.

Mandy sighs. “I lost it, Mick,” she says quietly, with weight.

“Lost what?”

“My job.” She leaves him in stark silence.

“Which one?” he asks grimly.

“Juice bar.”

Mickey hands the cigarette back to her. It’s almost finished.  “What for?”

“They partnered with some exchange program. Let go all the American kids to make room for a shipment of Italians,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Colin ain’t gonna be happy,” he warns, pushing himself away from the fence and working to pin his “MICKEY” tag back on.

“The ocean is fuckin’ green,” she mumbles as he walks away, back to Leo’s Pizza. He turns at the milky glass door and watches her take one more thoughtful drag through the static of the crowd before she stomps out the cigarette, ruffles her damp hair, and pushes her way against the stream. Her skin is pink from the sun, and her long legs carry her fast, with piercing eyes to navigate the crowd, above high cheekbones and full lips, rose from the summer.

Mickey blinks and she’s gone. He pushes open the door, and an icy air greets him.

The shop is empty; it’s only 10 am.

“Leo!” Mickey shouts towards the back. “You in?”

A few shuffles, one bang, and the door to the kitchen produces a round, greasy man with black balding hair and the biggest, reddest, most crooked nose ever spat onto a human being.

“What? Waddya want, Mickey, time’s fuckin money.”

“Nobody’s fuckin’ here, Leo.”

“Yeah, but every second I spend talkin’ to you I gotta spend on another fluid ounce of _vino_ when I get home.”

Mickey smiles. “Funny, had you more pegged for a beer kinda guy.” He spares a glance at Leo’s solid stomach.

He nods. “Now we’re getting smart, are we? You don’t start talkin’, kid, I’m goin’ back in that kitchen.”

“Alright, alright,” Mickey stops him with raised hands. Leo stares at him impatiently. “Listen, Mandy’s lost a job to some exchange leeches, I gotta pick up another shift.”

Leo squints. “Mickey, you pick up one more shift, you’re gonna be working full-time.”

“Well—“

“Well,” he interrupts Mickey, “I didn’t open a pizza shop to grant my dish pigs health insurance.”

Mickey shakes his head. “Never had it, never asked for it.”

Leo scratches his head, and sniffs. Finally, he sighs. “Look, kid, I like you, alright? And you’re one of Colin’s _marmaglia_.”

“So?”

“So…kid, this ain’t conventional, you’re kinda young, but you’re the most responsible piece of shit I’ve hired in the place, so how’d you like to be my assistant manager?”

Mickey stares at the man, mouth half open, frozen.

Leo mimics him, opening his mouth with a dumb expression. “What? You don’t want it? You one of those saints, not gonna take shit you ain’t qualified for or whatever?”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, I’m—“

“Honored? Tickled? Aroused? You don’t gotta pander to me, Michelangelo, just finish your day here, and come in tomorrow at 8 am all bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready to start your new life as a people pleaser, alright?”

“Yeah. Fuck. Yes, thank you, Leo, I owe you.” His smile hasn’t felt this easy in years.

“You owe me six more fuckin’ hours of work, so get back to it.” He sniffs and pushes briskly back into the kitchen.

“My name ain’t fuckin’ Michelangelo!” Mickey calls after his boss, as an afterthought, without much conviction.

His chest sings.

_The ocean isn’t blue. I just got promoted. Maybe I’ll stop smoking._

“Are you open?”

Mickey’s mind takes time to answer, time he takes to look at the kid stepping up to the counter.

Shaggy red hair, freckles, square chin, watery eyes. A tight, worn tank top stretches across his chest above ill fitting cargo shorts. Everything about the boy sings runaway; his hair, his shoes, his skin indicate he’s held together only by petty theft and a will to survive.

“Yeah, we’re open.”

He orders, digs in his pocket for exact change.

Mickey slides his order, a single slice of cheese pizza, across the counter to him, and his eyes come alive. He snatches the plate and ignores his receipt, not taking the time to find a seat before finishing the slice in four bites and turning to leave.

Mickey watches him push out and shrugs, checks his watch, and chews his lip. Five hours and 58 minutes to go.

 

* * *

 

 

The nights in Azurra are cold despite the season; everyone says it has to do with the ocean, and the wind, and the current, but Mickey’s been to Ocean City and he’s been to Rehoboth and he’s been to Cape Cod and no matter what he always comes back and stands on the deserted boardwalk and shivers more than he did when he was gone. But tonight, he can hardly feel the chill on his shoulders.

A promotion. A _promotion._

He feels borderline ridiculous over his happiness regarding the small step up from, as Leo so eloquently put it, dish pig. But, with a promotion comes a raise, quelling his concerns about Mandy’s lost job, and the title _Assistant Manager_ on his resume couldn’t hurt.

He takes in another breath, drinking in the salty air and then digging in his jacket pocket for a cigarette and his lighter. It only takes one roll to light a flame, and the resulting poison in Mickey’s lungs never felt so good.

He starts his walk home, and is struck by the stark contrast of the boardwalk at night compared to its daytime bustle. It’s deserted, practically, besides the occasional group of teenage boys, smoking weed and rolling across the bumpy wood on skateboards and yelling unwelcome compliments to girls unlucky enough to walk past.

The boardwalk in itself has neighborhoods; up towards the one digit numbers are your high scale hotels and houses, and the restaurants so expensive they shut down during the off season; none of the locals can fucking afford it.

Towards the middle are the grimier residencies; still alright, still livable, but the hotels are louder and the staff smile much less, and the beach houses look much more...loved.

Past all the hotels are the tourist traps, the thousands of shacks that sell shitty airbrushed t-shirts or stuffed animals or other various useless pieces of novelty crap. Mickey briefly wonders, not for the first time, how the proprietors sleep at night selling that shit.

At the very end, at the outlet, there’s a never ending carnival and the docks, where boats take off for sunset rides on the bay.

But, in between the outlet and the shops, there’s a street; one that turns off with a suddenness that allows you to miss it. Neon lights flash and stutter and loud laughter spills from the pulsing mouth of the street, collecting from the separate clubs and tumbling into one big slur of energy. Mickey knows it’s the faster way home; taking the street before it causes a whole domino effect of blockades and gated residentials that would make a tourist’s head spin. Even so, he usually avoids it.

It’s the queer part of town. Every local knows it, even if they don’t say it. And it’s not that Mickey really has a problem with the whole gay thing. Who gives a fuck? No, what he cares about is the comments, the offers, the propositions, endlessly thrown his way until he can finally emerge out of the suffocating alley.

For some reason, that he may never know, gays just _want_ him. And it makes him entirely too fucking uncomfortable.

He doesn’t know what leads him to turn down the street just then; maybe his newfound sense of inner calm, maybe his rush to get home to give the good news to his family, but something prompts him to forget about his trepidation for tonight and just take the fast way home.

It starts 15 seconds after he sets foot in the fucking alley.

“ _Hello,_ sweet thing!”

He purses his lips and keeps walking.

“You wanna grab a bite, honey?”

He rubs a hand across his mouth before suddenly remembering something, and shoving both his hands back into his pockets to hide his tattoos, but he realizes a second later that he was too late.

“Oh, you can fuck _me_ up any time!”

“How ‘bout you back the fuck off?” he calls back to the detached voice. He continues to put one foot in front of the other, ignoring the occasional whistle and the warm air spilling from the doors of the clubs, snapping open as he passes every once in awhile.

He lifts his eyes once. _Once_ . Right towards a small alley, and he almost stops in his tracks. He squints, and confirms that yes, there definitely is a dark figure standing there. _Two_ dark figures. This time, he really does stop, and maybe he knows better than to stare, but something just seems off about it. The figures shift, moving together, forward a little bit.

And then Mickey sees him again, just barely lit by the streetlights, clinging to the alley. The absolutely-without-a-doubt-that-is-a-runaway kid, red hair and freckles and all, latched onto a much older man, holding his hand out, waiting, smiling with this fake deviousness, and Mickey watches as the old man hands the kid what looks like a sizable stack of cash. His stomach twists. He can feel the cold air again. He shivers.

The kid couldn’t have been more than 17. What the fuck kind of pervert pays a teenager to fuck? Mickey thought back to the ravenous state the kid had been in that afternoon, and his heart cracks. He’d been poor; shit, he _is_ poor. But selling yourself for your next meal? That’s a whole new level.

Someone bumps Mickey’s shoulder and he realizes that he’s zoned out; blinking, he searches again for the pair, and almost jumps when he spots them coming his way. He almost wretches when he realizes that the man paying for it is even older than he previously thought; upwards near 60.

He sniffs. His eyes very briefly go out of focus. He makes a decision.

“Ay!” he calls just as the pair brush past him. They take about five more paces before pausing. Mickey rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, you, Carrot Cake. I’m talkin’ to you.” The kid seems to freeze, and then slowly, he turns around, eyes narrowed.

Mickey takes a breath. What the _fuck_ is he doing? “You _really_ wanna go home with that Brillo pad motherfucker for a couple hundred bucks?” The kid blinks rapidly, but the old man bristles.

“And who the fuck are you?” the man asks in a voice that suggests he has about a decade's worth of mucous built up in the back of his throat.

Mickey ignores him, taking a step closer to the redhead, looking him dead in his (very green, very large) eyes. “I’ll give ya a place to sleep and food to eat. For a week.” The kid’s eyes widen, and then soften with what could be gratitude. He releases the older man’s arm and immediately walks towards Mickey, jaw set.

“Wait. Wait!” the man calls out. “I need my money back.” The man crosses one arm across his chest and holds out the other, waiting, but Mickey scoffs. He glances over at the redhead, who he finds is already looking at him expectantly.

“How much he pay you?” Mickey asks. Without a word, the kid hands the cash over to Mickey, who flicks through it impatiently.

“Thr--four--four hundred bucks? That’s all? For him?” Mickey asks, jutting a thumb towards the redhead to his right. “ _That’s_ all you’re charging? You could get a grand a lay from these tourist assholes, dude.” The kid looks dumbstruck, dropping his gaze down and to the side. Maybe it’s the neon lights, but Mickey can swear he can see the kid blush.

The man opposite them clears his throat impatiently. “My money?” Mickey’s eyes flit back and forth, from the money in his hand to the man standing in front of him.

“I’ll tell you what,” Mickey finally says, licking his thumb and shuffling through the cash again. “Red here will take half, because he let you stand next to him for 5 minutes and touch his arm. That’s about as much as two hundred would get you with a regular escort looking the way he does, anyway. Sound good?” Mickey slips two hundred dollars to the kid next to him, then holds out the remaining money to the other man.

“You’re robbing me!” the man exclaims, and Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up. He takes a step closer, making sure his stare doesn’t break from the other man’s eyes. He slams the money against the other man’s chest and licks his lips.

“Sound good?” he repeats, more pointedly, and he watches the man visibly shrink, finally mumbling his assent. Mickey smiles a wide, sarcastic, dangerous smile. “Good!” He pats the old man’s cheek, with venom. “That’s what you get for paying to fuck teenage boys. Have a nice night!”

Mickey chokes back a laugh as the man scrambles to get away, turning back into the alley where he had first paid the redhead.

Mickey jumps when he feels an arm linking through his. “The fuck?” he exclaims, taking a step away and turning to the boy beside him, and he swallows drily at the kid’s mischievous smile. He’s practically glowing under the neon light, eyes dark and hungry. It shouldn’t make Mickey’s chest constrict. It does.

“You gonna take me back to yours, or what?” the redhead asks, voice velvety and smooth.

Mickey blinks, and it takes him about seven seconds to remember that he had actually offered this hooker a place to live. For a week.

“Yeah, I, uh--” Mickey starts dumbly, before swallowing and trying again. “What’s your name, anyway?”

The redhead takes a second too long to answer, before saying, “Curtis.”

Mickey narrows his eyes, before sighing and biting his lip. “Your real name, Red.”

“That is--” the kid stops almost as soon as he starts, cut short by Mickey’s raised eyebrows and knowing expression. The kid noticeably swallows, before mumbling, “Ian.”

“Ian,” Mickey repeats. He snorts at the redhead’s expression, all wide-eyed and shaky. “I ain’t a cop, chill out.” Ian seems to visibly relax at this, trying once again to link arms with Mickey. Mickey opens his mouth to protest, but when he meets Ian’s eyes and sees the tiniest bit of security swirled in with the facade of desire, he shuts it again and lets Ian’s arm fully loop through his.

“I guess you gotta feel like a sitting duck walkin’ through a place like this, huh?” Mickey says softly.

Ian shrugs, but his small smile says he appreciates Mickey’s understanding.

Mickey stands there for a few more seconds, breathing, nearly succumbing to his urge to rip his arm away from the kid, but he chokes it down.

After all, if he’s got someone on _his_ arm, maybe all the bullshit catcalling will chill the fuck out, and he can just get home and sleep.

So, they start forward. One foot in front of the other.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So you gonna tell me what you’re doing bringing lost puppies home, now?” Mandy asks, without much bite.
> 
> Mickey straightens, scanning the open cupboard for spaghetti, blowing a stray hair from his eyes when all he can see is a small box of penne.
> 
> “Mickey.”
> 
> He finally turns to face his sister, finding her with her arms crossed over her chest, eyebrows high, waiting for an explanation. He doesn’t hold back anymore.
> 
> “He was on the street fucking 60 year old men for food, Mands.”
> 
> Mandy snorts. “Him and about one hundred other runaways in this shithole city. Why’s this one our problem?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To like clear something up, I totally did put the first part (the journal entry sort of part from Ian's perspective) into the first chapter but I took it back out bc I just didn't like it there I guess. But yeah, I think most of Ian's perspective will be through those sort of choppy diary entry things from his journal, and Mickey will narrate the brunt of the present day action.  
> Also yeah I just posted the first chapter yesterday but I just kinda write as inspiration comes and it just happened to come the day after.

_October 2nd, '15_

_It’s 9 AM, but I’ve been awake for hours. Fiona told me not to have a cappuccino after 5 pm and I refuse to even insinuate that she was right. The sound of a lawn mower and the clink of my family’s breakfast keep me awake for now. They talk, talk, talk, as if they don’t know that Saturdays are for the quiet._

_If it were up to me, everyday would be for the quiet. All I want is for everything to stop for awhile: school, responsibility, money, time. I’m 17, almost an adult, and everything feels like too much. I’ve been tired of everything lately, my school, my friends, my family. Nothing seems to change here, and everyone just seems fine with that. Canaryville is the same gray, chain link neighborhood I remember from my early childhood. Dangerous, ugly, insignificant, the auto shop a block down from my house hasn’t repainted its sign since before I was born._

_I want something new. A change of scene beyond my little strip of Chicago hell. Maybe I’ll join the circus, or run away to New York City. That would be an adventure._

_Sometimes, I’m so bored of life that I can’t get out of bed. That’s probably just because I’m a teenager, I need lots of sleep. I remind myself that my senior year is my best year, and I have to finish it strong. Sometimes, I’m excited to go to all the end of year events: prom, graduation, parties, but something feels so empty about it that I often wonder if I only look forward to it because the machine tells me I’m supposed to._

_I don’t really know what “the machine” is, but I’ve been making some new friends that listen to rock music and they sing about the machine a lot. My new friends talk about it too, and they make it sound bad, so I guess it is._

_Speaking of my new friends, they’re the only interesting things in my life. They wear mostly black, and have piercings and tattoos and three of them ride motorcycles to school. Everyone’s afraid of them, and I guess I was, too, but not anymore._

_I met Jaq first, in PE, my favorite class. He tried to wear jeans during warm-up and Coach yelled at him about how he can’t believe he’s stuck with him again. I guess Jaq failed senior year, because I could have sworn he was a year ahead of me last year. Jaq said he didn’t have other clothes, but I did, so I lent him some, and in the locker room he told me he hated gym because he wasn’t any good at sports. I told him that I was and that I could help him if he wanted. He seemed mad at first, but then he softened a bit and said thanks and that he doesn’t want to fail and have to stay in this shithole for another minute._

_Jaq’s tall and he has really black spiky hair and a lot of piercings and he comes into school with bruises a lot. He introduced me to his friends the week I taught him to do a layup._

_Marce is a really short, chubby sophomore that I notice sometimes on the back of Jaq’s bike. She always has cherry red lips and heavy black eyeliner and she smiles a lot more than you might expect._

_Nate has dark skin and a muscled body and a shaved head. He’s very quiet but he has a nice laugh and once, when Jaq was strumming his guitar, Nate sang along softly as I was sitting next to him and I heard that he has a very nice, silky voice._

_Jeffrey is the loudest, and he starts fights with the teachers and sometimes other students. He’s wiry and tan and I don’t think he likes me because he was the jock of the group, a soccer player, before Jaq brought me in._

_Roz is the last one, and she’s average height with bright pink hair and big eyes and a whole lot of Hello Kitty shirts and emotional issues. She touches my arm a lot and laughs at what I say even if it wasn’t funny. Sometimes she sits on my lap but sometimes she sits on Jeffrey’s lap or Nate’s lap or even a lap that isn’t a part of the group so maybe she’s just a flirt. She makes me nervous, and not in the good way._

_I’ve been hanging out with them more than my old friends, and I think my old friends have started to notice. Yesterday, when Jaq waved me over to their lunch table, I sat with them instead of the football guys. I don’t think they were happy, but I also don’t think they care enough about me to get angry._

_My new friends are exciting but I also wonder if I fit in with them. I’m South Side, poor to say the least, but my new friends scare me more than the drunk thugs in my neighborhood. I don’t have any tattoos or piercings, and I ride a bike to get around; not a motorcycle bike, a bicycle bike, the same one I’ve had since I was twelve. I’m getting used to rock music but I still listen to the Top 40 once in awhile, though I’d never tell them that. When I refused a line of coke at a party once, they started calling me “Golden Boy.”_

_I told Jaq that I’ve never been on a motorcycle, so he’s coming around today to take me for a ride. I’m nervous; I don’t know why. I spend the most time with Jaq, so I’m more comfortable with him than the others. Maybe it’s the motorcycle ride, but he’s coming any minute and my heart is pounding._

* * *

 

“Mickey, what the fuck?” Mandy’s voice calls to him, almost immediately.

Mickey can’t help but wince as he steps through the door of the home he and his siblings share.

The walk home with Ian had been silent, but he could feel the kid’s eyes on him almost the entire time, particularly after Mickey had dropped his arm once the lights of the clubs had faded in the distance in favor of shoving his hands into his own pockets.

Now, the redhead stands timidly behind Mickey, and Mandy’s eyes flit back and forth between the two boys. She’s seated on their couch, the television softly spouting something.

“What?” Mickey finally produces, weakly. He knows exactly _what_. He knows he and his siblings aren’t exactly in the practice of bringing friends home just to sleepover. In fact, Mickey doesn’t think he can remember a single time when any of them, even Mandy, had had a close friend outside of the family.

Mandy fixes him with a glare that could melt steel beams and gestures pointedly to the boy behind him. Mickey turns to look at Ian, and he feels his own face morph, almost as shocked as Mandy’s, as if he’d forgotten Ian was there. He quickly saves face, straightening his mouth and setting his jaw.

“What. What? Ain’t I allowed to have a fuckin’ friend?” Mickey spits as he turns back to his sister, and Mandy narrows her eyes.

“Sure. Maybe I’d let it slide if you’ve ever _had_ a friend. Ever,” Mandy counters. Mickey scoffs, and glances over his shoulder at Ian, again. The escort’s arms are crossed, in the I’m-trying-my-best-to-disappear sort of way, and, inexplicably, Mickey can feel his shoulders soften.

“Hey,” he says, more gently than he’d meant to. It takes a second for Ian to realize Mickey’s talking to him specifically, but when he does he looks to Mickey’s eyes with hesitation, making Mickey swallow involuntarily. “You wanna go take a shower or something? I’ll find ya something to eat.” A nod and a small smile from the kid makes Mickey’s chest warm. He sniffs and ignores the urge to smile back similarly. “Down that hall, to the right. Towels are in the cupboard. Use whatever shower gel, just don’t touch the bar soap. It’s Colin’s.”

“Thank you,” Ian says quietly, so much so that Mickey almost misses it. But, he nods his affirmation and watches the kid’s tall, retreating form. It isn’t until he distantly hears the sound of rushing water that he moves to the tiny, open kitchen directly to the left of their living room.

He sucks his teeth when he hears padded feet follow him.

“Mandy, I do not have the fuckin’ energy. It’s been a night,” Mickey evades without looking.

Mandy sniffs in return, leaning against the counter, watching as Mickey peers into the fridge for something to make.

“‘S my house, too,” Mandy argues.

“Yeah,” Mickey answers absently, and he sighs, pulling out a half-used jar of tomato sauce and moving to the cabinets to find pasta.

“So you gonna tell me what you’re doing bringing lost puppies home, now?” Mandy asks, without much bite.

Mickey straightens, scanning the open cupboard for spaghetti, blowing a stray hair from his eyes when all he can see is a small box of penne.

“Mickey.”

He finally turns to face his sister, finding her with her arms crossed over her chest, eyebrows high, waiting for an explanation. He doesn’t hold back anymore.

“He was on the street fucking 60 year old men for food, Mands.”

Mandy snorts. “Him and about one hundred other runaways in this shithole city. Why’s this one our problem?”

“He came into the shop right after--I got promoted, Mands. Assistant manager.”

Mandy perks up, straightening from her leaning position. “No shit? At Leo’s?”

Mickey nods, squatting to rummage through their mess of pots and pans, finally finding a pot deep enough for the penne. “No shit,” he confirms.

“Hey, uh...congrats,” Mandy says softly.

“Thanks,” Mickey returns, equally as soft. He gently pushes her away from the sink so he can fill the pot with water.

“So he came into the shop…”

Mickey sighs, realizing his sister won’t let this go.

“Yeah, he came into the shop lookin’ all grimey and shit, ordered a slice of pizza and ate it right there at the counter. So fast I wondered if it even fuckin’ existed in the first place.”

“Right,” Mandy prompts. “And then?”

“And then,” Mickey begins, “I wanted to get home fast. I took the fast way. Ya know, the _fast way_.” Mandy nods. She knows. “Yeah, well, I saw him again, remembered him, watched some wrinkled pedophile try to pay him four hundred bucks for a fuck. I couldn’t just--” he pauses, running a hand over his mouth. “I couldn’t just fuckin’ walk away. I offered him a place to crash for a week if he walked away from the dude.”

Mandy is quiet for a minute, fingers tapping lightly on the counter. “So you’re like, what? Savior of the hookers now?” Mickey just shrugs.

“Universe did me one good. Might as well keep that good karma flowing,” Mickey says as he sets the pot down on the stove solidly, switching on the heat, watching the water sparkle.

“You don’t believe in that bullshit,” Mandy reminds him, and he shrugs again, deciding not to answer this time.

“Does he at least have a name?” Mandy prompts.

“Ian,” Mickey responds after a brief quiet, in which he notices the shower is no longer making its steady white noise.

“Ian,” Mandy repeats, drawing out the vowels with scrutiny, squinting at nothing.

“Yeah?”

Both siblings look pointedly to their right, and Mickey (though he would never admit it) almost swallows his fucking tongue. The redhead stands, only wearing boxers and that tight tank top, the tool, stretching his arms above his head with a small smile. Just a regular fucking Adonis. Mickey tells himself that it’s ugly, embarrassing jealousy towards the kid’s body in the pit of his stomach and not something worse.

It takes all of Mickey’s concentration not to stutter when he motions to the small table pushed against the opposite wall and says, “Sit down, I’m making dinner.” He rips open the box of penne, none too gently, and dumps it into the boiling water. Ian follows his order after a moment’s hesitation, and Mandy stares at the escort for a second before striding forward and joining him at the table, leaning forward on her elbows.

“So. Ian,” Mandy starts. Mickey turns, leaning back against the counter, waiting for the pasta to cook and trying his very best, his absolute hardest not to stare directly at Ian.

“Where’re you from?” Mandy asks, almost kindly. Ian swallows and thumbs his lip, calculating, before seemingly making a decision.

“Chicago.”

Mickey snorts. “Long way from home.”

Ian nods, almost sadly. “Yeah.”

“Why New Jersey? How’d you end up in Azurra?” Mandy asks.

Ian shrugs, crossing his arms and slouching in his seat. “Wanted to see the ocean.”

“And? What do you think?” Mandy asks.

Ian sniffs. “Not as blue as they let you believe.”

Mickey points at him with a triumphant smile and raised eyebrows. “See? I’m not fuckin’ crazy. Ocean’s green, man.”

“Literally nobody cares, Mick,” Mandy shoots back, and Ian contributes a small smile.

“So, that’s your name?” Ian asks, directing his green eyes towards Mickey. “Mick?”

“Mickey,” Mickey corrects.

“Mickey,” Ian repeats. “And you’re…” he glances at Mandy.

“Mandy,” she answers.

“Right.”

Mickey clears his throat and figures the pasta still needs about two minutes to be just right. “So, why’d you leave?” Mickey surprises himself by asking.

Ian chews his lip thoughtfully, taking his time. “Shitty home life? Relationship issues? Bored outta my mind? A lot of reasons.”

“Hm.” Mickey turns back to his pot, stirring and picking one piece of penne out, dropping it to the counter and cutting through it with his spoon. Perfect.

“So, what do you guys do? For a living?” Ian pipes up.

Mickey snorts as he busies himself with finding a strainer. “Do you not remember ordering a slice of pizza from me twelve fuckin’ hours ago, Red?”

Ian blinks, and he seems to concentrate for a good few seconds before his eyes light up with recognition. “Oh. Oh! Yeah, that was you!”

“Yeah,” Mickey scoffs over the sound of hissing water as he pours the pasta into the strainer. “That was me.”

“Do you own the place?” Ian asks.

“Nah,” Mickey answers.

“Assistant manager,” Mandy offers with a proud smile and a point to her brother. “And _I_ ,” Mandy begins, stretching with her legs straight in front of her and her arms lifted above her head, “am a woman of many trades and skills. Lifeguard, entrepreneur--”

“ _Cashier_ ,” Mickey corrects, and hides a smile when Ian laughs.

“Fuck you. Waitress, babysitter, you name it, I’ve probably done it. Except maybe...” Mandy gestures directly towards Ian and sweeps her hand up and down his body. “Your profession.”

Ian’s smile shrinks only a small degree.

“Yeah, speakin’ of that--you got a pimp, Red?” Mickey asks as he adds the sauce to the penne.

“Uh. No. Never stayed in one place long enough,” Ian answers honestly, albeit nervously. Mickey scratches the tip of his nose.

“That’s dangerous as hell. How’d ya know that your clients aren’t fuckin’ Jeffrey Dahmer wannabes?”

Ian swallows. “Don’t, I guess.”

“So you risk your life with those wrinkly pervs just so you can eat for the next week?”

Ian scratches his cheek, eyes growing dim. “Name of the game, I guess. Hookers die every day, pimp or not. Nobody around here is hiring for honest work this time of year. Positions are already filled.”

Both Mandy and Mickey blink at his sudden, cold bluntness.

Ian shrugs. “Death is like...inevitable? Right?” He seems very uncertain of this fact, but still unsettlingly blasé.

“Right, well,” Mickey starts, pulling out three bowls and dividing up the pasta between them. “You don’t gotta die by the hand of some closeted, blue-balled, geriatric asshole. _That_ is the part that isn’t inevitable,” Mickey finds himself explaining. He sucks in a breath, turning around and setting two of the bowls in front of his sister and Ian, and placing the third at the last empty chair, claiming it for himself.

There’s a silence, in which all three dig into their pasta, and, once again, Ian eats his food so fast Mickey questions if the past fifteen minutes hadn’t been a fever dream.

“We’ll find you something,” Mandy offers, surprising everyone at the table. “So you don’t have to go back.”

“What I really want to do is be a dancer. At one of the clubs. But everywhere I’ve tried they’ve always turned me down because I’m underage. I haven’t tried here, yet, though.”

Mickey thumbs his lip, staring at his pasta, suddenly uninterested. “You sure that’s your highest aspiration? Stripping?” He doesn’t know why the idea makes his gut feel heavy. He finds his eyes focusing on the stretch of skin between Ian’s thumb and forefinger, lingering for the duration of Ian’s contemplative silence. When the boy speaks again, Mickey’s eyes meet his.

“Can’t really do anything else. ‘S all I’m good at.” He says it hollowly, and Mickey taps the table thoughtfully.

“That can’t be true,” Mandy says softly, almost gently. All it earns her is a noncommittal shrug from Ian.

A humid silence falls between the three, Ian staring down at his empty bowl, Mandy nervously picking at her nails, and Mickey sucking absently on his bottom lip. He finds his mind wandering curiously to Ian and his past; having a life so bad that you feel the need to relocate from Chicago to some shitty city on the east coast? Mickey’s had his shit, sure; his older brothers in and out of prison, both his parents gone, his little sister his only friend in the world. But he’d never wanted to _run_ from it all. Maybe have three wishes to make it a little more bearable, but never up and leave.

It’s Mandy that finally breaks the silence, by clapping her hands together lightly, and stating, “Well, I’m goin’ the fuck to bed. Thanks for dinner, Mick.” She nods to Ian, and Ian nods back, before she gathers her bowl, drops it in the sink, and exits the room, leaving Mickey alone with Ian.

“Mickey?” Ian begins, and Mickey turns his gaze to the younger boy. “I, uh, I was staying at this shithole crackhouse a ways down and I left my bag there. I gotta go get it tonight or it might not...ya know, be there, in the morning.”

Mickey sniffs. Nods. “Yeah, okay.”

“Not that there’s anything valuable in there, really,” Ian continues. Mickey finds that he likes watching Ian’s face while he talks, likes how expressive he is through even the most mundane statements. Mickey opts to stare at the table and just listen, instead.

“‘Bout thirty bucks, changes of clothes, maybe half a granola bar, and my--” Ian cuts himself short, and Mickey’s gaze shoots up to him. Ian averts his eyes, foot tapping nervously.

“And your...what?” Mickey asks, the smallest bit nervous. What the hell is such a big deal? AIDS medication? Police wire? Ex-boyfriend’s severed penis?

Ian exhales with just the slightest bit of self-directed exasperation. “My...fuckin’ journal, alright?” he mumbles.

“Oh.” What the fuck was the big deal? Mickey huffs out a relieved laugh, earning a pointed glare from Ian. “What? I was bracing myself for something way worse than a journal. Maybe your meth supply or some shit.”

Ian stares at him for a few more seconds, still tense, before visibly relaxing into his own small laugh. Mickey smiles at him, something that feels too natural to hide, and watches Ian as he pushes back from the table and stands, treading quickly to the bathroom and returning with his cargo shorts on.

“I’ll be back in, like, fifteen minutes tops,” he says, and starts towards the door. Mickey’s eyes trace the line down Ian’s bare bicep and he suddenly realizes something.

“Wait, man,” Mickey calls out, shuffling out of his seat and heading towards his room. “Be right back.” He pushes open his door and walks immediately towards his closet, rummaging through the disorganized plethora of clothes before he finds a jacket previously belonging to Iggy, still too large to fit Mickey right. That will have to do.

He returns to Ian, finding him staring at the ground impatiently, and tosses him the jacket, watching as the boy catches it against his chest awkwardly, a surprised look on his face.

“Get’s real fuckin’ cold at night. From the ocean and shit,” Mickey mumbles, eyes cast down. He doesn’t have time to think, or even look, before feet are striding forward and Ian is closer than he’s ever been, leaning forward, and Mickey’s heart feels like it’s going to fall out of his fucking ribcage it’s pounding so hard, when Ian presses a light, friendly kiss to Mickey’s cheek. Mickey’s too shocked to move, fingers twitching at his side.

“You’re, like, the nicest person I’ve ever met,” Ian says softly, with a nervous, fond smile. And with that, he’s out the door. And suddenly, Mickey has no idea how to move his limbs.

__Fuck._ _


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, should we do this?” Ian asks, voice husky, pushing away from the doorway and taking a step forward, gaze steady.
> 
> “What?” Mickey asks dumbly. His eyes widen slightly as Ian clears the room and props a knee against the edge of the bed.
> 
> “What you hired me for,” Ian explains with a devilish smile, and Mickey finds himself internally shaky, but still frozen in place as Ian crawls towards him with practiced precision.
> 
> What? Mickey isn’t sure if he just thinks this second question or says it, but either way his lips feel like static, so he wouldn’t be able to tell one way or the other.

_October 18, ‘15_

_I quit ROTC because Jaq told me that the military is evil and corrupt and that I don’t want to be a part of it. I believe him, so I did it, but I still miss it. It’s worth it though, because it made Jaq smile and give me that nod of approval that makes me feel like I’ve done something very right. The football season is starting to get intense, anyway, and between that and my grades and my part time job and my new friends, ROTC just took up too much time. Jaq said that I’m never going to get into West Point, anyway, and he’s kind of right, I guess. Jaq is right about almost everything._

_I’ve been starting to find my own niche with rock music. For a while I really really tried to listen to heavy metal, but it all just made me feel anxious. I missed the melodic quality of it. It just feels like listening to anger, and despite my friend group, I just don’t have enough of that to relate._

_I mean, my life hasn’t been the greatest. My parents suck, my family practically ignores me, but that’s alright, because that’s just how it’s always been. No use yelling about it._

_I’ve been finding music on my own, stuff that really makes me feel that feeling. You know, that feeling like right in your throat and in your chest and the tops of your arms. That feeling that makes you feel like maybe it’ll all be okay, even if it’s all kind of a lot right then._

_I like the softer stuff, sure. I like stuff that sounds like a kaleidoscope, or a spray of cologne, or a hollow sob at 2 am. The stuff that feels kind of warm, like a summer night. Some of it isn’t actually rock music at all, but what does it matter? Music is supposed to make you feel something, no matter what genre. Sometimes I think that my new friends are pretty pretentious about the whole genre thing, but then, that’s why I don’t have much of a voice in the group yet, I guess._

_I really can’t wait for it to snow so I can put together all my new favorite songs and make a cup of hot chocolate and turn off all the lights and sit by a window and just watch the world go extra quiet. Even my street is pretty when it snows._

_I think Roz is going to ask me to the homecoming dance, and I don’t really know how I’m going to turn her down. She keeps talking to me about it, how she’s going to dye her hair pastel blue to match her dress and how she wants her corsage to be the same color. I want to go to the dance just...not with her. I’m not sure if I want to go with anyone. I think if we just went as a group, it would be more fun than pairing off. I kind of hope Marce and Jaq don’t go as a couple so we can all just do that._

_Everything just feels like it’s going too fast. I should be figuring out what I’m doing after school; college? Tech school? Army? Retail? I have no idea. Part of me hopes a scout will pick me up at one of our games so maybe I can go to school on a sports scholarship, but I’m always in the limelight. I’m not the quarterback, or even on the first string. I really think I am good, but I’m much better at basketball, even if I am that pasty, stringy white kid. So, maybe I’ll just have to wait for basketball season to get an idea of my shot at college. Like Jaq said, I’m not smart enough to get in on grades alone, anyway._

_My English teacher keeps trying to pressure me to join the school’s literary magazine team, and maybe it would look good on college applications, but I just don’t have the time. And besides, I’m not any good at real writing, anyway. This is different. This is just me being honest, coping with my day. Therapy or whatever. This isn’t real writing, like an essay or a short story or a poem. I wouldn’t have the confidence for that._

 

* * *

 

Mickey’s made a fair amount of questionable decisions in his lifetime. Okay, a lot. _Alright,_ his 19 years may or may not have consisted solely of rather questionable decisions. Like when he was just a kid, maybe 8 or 9, and didn’t like the way his neighbor Mrs. Kowalski looked at his older brothers with disgust, so he collected carpenter ants and baked them into a pie and gave it to her out of spite. Or the time he thought it would be funny to fill his sophomore Health teacher’s car with condoms and Playboy magazines, top to bottom, after he spent a 45 minute class teaching abstinence and calling non-virgin girls sluts. (Okay, maybe he doesn’t _really_ regret that one.) There were his car stealing days, around when he was 14, when he figured out he could make a profit off hot-wiring the expensive cars clueless tourists left in unmonitored neighborhoods and selling them to the local underground dealership. Or when he was 15, and thought it would be the most badass thing ever to tattoo FUCK U-UP across his knuckles. (Disclaimer: it was not the most badass thing ever.) Or when he was 16 and smoked weed that Colin had specifically told him _not_ to smoke, because fuck anyone who told him what to do, and ended up high off his fucking mind on the angel dust that had been laced into the joint without Mickey’s knowledge, landing him in the hospital. He still doesn’t know who he punched that made his knuckles ache so bad, but they never pressed charges.

Fine. His life has, up until this point, been a long and sometimes painful series of _I told you so, Mickey._ That all changed, though, around the time that Mickey was 17 and Iggy landed in prison over a drug bust and multiple assault charges, and Mickey and Mandy had to pick up as breadwinners alongside Colin.

You wouldn’t guess by looking at him (Mickey is painfully aware of this) but he actually did graduate high school. Actually, not only did he graduate, but he graduated a year early. To give the short version, he was such a smart kid that he was allowed to start kindergarten at four years old instead of five, so he’s always been a year younger than everyone in his grade, at least. He might have been a delinquent, but, miraculously, he stayed out of juvie, and it wasn’t like he _didn’t care_. Of course he wanted to be the first in his family to finish. Colin had the GED, but it was unspoken that it wasn’t the same, and that Colin expected Mickey to finish, at least. It was always just unsaid that, if anyone in the family could do it, Mickey could. And he did. But for what? To spin pizzas all day, smoke away an eighth of his paycheck, trudge forward, trudge forward, keep marching, keep marching. He hates to admit it, but his life has become downright fucking mundane.

A lifetime of questionable decisions. This whole situation with Ian could just be written off as one more lapse of discretion on Mickey’s part, but somewhere in the very center of his chest, right below his sternum, he knows it’s something else.

Just looking at Ian gives him a fucking rush. This air of mystery just emanates off him, this vibe of just not giving a fuck, of boldness and quiet confidence. There’s just something dangerous that Mickey’s never encountered before, not in the crime rings his family has been briefly involved in, not in the overgrown thugs from his old high school, not in the eyes of the inmates he briefly sees when he visits Iggy. It’s a different kind of dangerous, and Mickey can’t quite pinpoint what the fuck it is or why he’s already so enraptured with it, after approximately an hour of knowing Ian, but he is.

Will he do fuck all about it? Probably not.

He literally just can’t put his finger on what the fuck he feels when he looks at Ian. It doesn’t make any damn sense. Picturing his face produces this sensation he’s never felt towards anyone, ever. Like a ball of intense energy deep in his gut.

Like... Like…

_Oh. Oh, shit._

It’s at this exact moment of wordless realization that Mickey hears the front door close, shaking him out of his reverie within the dark of his room. He had been lying on his bed, face up, arms spread slightly on either side of him, staring up at his shadowy ceiling, waiting for Ian to come back safely.

If it is Ian that enters the house, he doesn’t say anything, and Mickey finds himself wondering if it’s Colin, and Ian is still out, when his door opens and the dim hallway light illuminates the redhead like a fucking succubus. Ian drops his bag to the floor, with an indiscernible smile, and steps forward.

“Back fast, Red,” Mickey mumbles, sitting up and propping himself against the headboard.

“Got long legs,” Ian answers breathily, shrugging like it’s no big deal and leaning against the door frame. Mickey freezes under his heavy gaze, absolutely paralyzed by the look in Ian’s eye.

_No…_

“So, should we do this?” Ian asks, voice husky, pushing away from the doorway and taking a step forward, gaze steady.

“What?” Mickey asks dumbly. His eyes widen slightly as Ian clears the room and props a knee against the edge of the bed.

“What you hired me for,” Ian explains with a devilish smile, and Mickey finds himself internally shaky, but still frozen in place as Ian crawls towards him with practiced precision.

_What?_ Mickey isn’t sure if he just thinks this second question or says it, but either way his lips feel like static, so he wouldn’t be able to tell one way or the other.

It isn’t until Ian is literally inches away from his face, swinging a leg over Mickey and settling on his lap, wrapping his arms around Mickey’s neck, before he snaps out of it.

“Whoa. _Whoa,_ Carrot Cake, I ain’t fuckin’ gay,” Mickey protests roughly, pushing Ian back lightly with a spread hand to his chest. Ian sits back and blinks a few times, not moving from Mickey’s lap. Mickey’s stomach does somersaults.

“But I thought--you _hired_ me. Right?” Ian asks, all trace of seduction gone from his voice, and Mickey almost feels disappointment mixed in with his relief.

“Red…” Mickey rubs a hand across his eyes tiredly, resisting the almost natural urge to place a hand on the side of Ian’s thigh. “I offered you a place to crash so you wouldn’t have to fuck a pedophile.” Ian blinks at him again, uncomprehending. Mickey exhales. “I. Don’t. Want. To. Fuck. You,” Mickey spells out. Ian chews on his lip, straightening the slightest bit. “And you don’t have to fuck me. This isn’t a job. This is me...doing you a favor, ya know?”

Ian stares at him for a few more seconds, and Mickey doesn’t really know what else he can say to explain his intentions and just when he’s about to ramble more, to try to get the redhead off his lap (because God knows he’ll probably implode if Ian shifts around anymore), Ian smiles this soft, sheepish smile, and Mickey realizes his hand is still pressed against the other boy’s chest when Ian covers it with his own, larger hand.

“You really are...the nicest person I’ve ever met, then,” Ian says softly, and the back of Mickey’s throat, all the way down to his chest, glows with warmth. Suddenly, Ian’s weight is gone as he swings off, giving Mickey a larger smile, almost relieved. “Couch, then,” Ian says, wasting no time in making his way towards the door.

“Uh, actually,” Mickey stops him, licking his bottom lip. “You can sleep in my brother’s room. Iggy. He ain’t...here. For the time being.” He decides leaving out the whole prison thing is a good idea if he wants Ian to feel safe.

Ian picks his bag back up from where he dropped it, slinging it over his shoulder and giving Mickey another one of those soft smiles. “Alright.”

“Just one door down,” Mickey explains. “Make yourself at home, ya know.”

“Yeah,” Ian agrees, lingering for just a moment, brushing the carpet carefully with one foot, staring at the ground before he seems to shake out of it. “Yeah,” he repeats, gaze finding its way to Mickey. “Hey, thanks. Again. Like a million times, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Mickey says, trying _very_ hard to sound as nonchalant as he can.

“And uh,” Ian shifts with a shy laugh. “Sorry for...coming on to you. I really thought I was supposed to.”

Mickey laughs, too. “Don’t mention it,” he says again. _Really, don’t mention it, I can’t think about it while you’re still standing there._

“Alright,” Ian says, with an awkward pause, shuffling his feet.

“G’night,” Mickey tells him, eyebrows raised high, impatient.

“Yeah! Night.” With a small wave, Ian’s turning and shutting Mickey’s door, leaving the older boy to drop back onto his bed with a rough exhale and will the heat still lingering in his stomach to dissipate.

_What...the fuck._

* * *

 

Mickey can’t tell if he sleeps that night. If he does, it’s drifting in a sleep as thin as steam in between fits of glaring insomnia. He tells himself that it’s from having a stranger in the house for the first time in as along as he can remember, and his nurture-induced suspicious nature, but deep in the back of his mind he knows it’s because he can’t stop thinking about the _who_ more than the _what_ of the situation. The second he realized what he was feeling, he was helpless to stop the cascade of intrusive thoughts that accompanied the epiphany.

_Ian’s eyes. Ian’s lips. Ian’s arms. Ian’s smile. Ian’s weight, pressed against him, his wrists locked behind his neck, his scent drifting lazily to fill the space--_

“Fuck,” Mickey whispers into the dark, and even though no one is present to witness it, he feels himself flush bright red. So _this_ is what they mean by a schoolboy crush. Great. Just one, tiny, minor, minuscule detail throws Mickey off: Ian is a dude. A guy, a man, a prime fuckin’ specimen of a boy. And while Mickey’s sure he doesn’t have the _best_ sense of who likes what kind of junk, he never expected to be clueless enough to not know that _he_ likes boys. Though sex with girls has never been the fireworks show his peers made it out to be, he just thought that maybe he was a secret romantic; he just had to meet the right girl, and it would all click.

No. _No._ He’d have known if he was gay. That’s what everyone says, that they knew from the time they were a kid. Wouldn’t he have known? Wouldn’t he have had one of those jerked-my-friend-off-in-the-locker-room-then-never-spoke-again stories? Though, it’s not like Mickey ever really made an effort to have friends. Acquaintances, sure. Girls he banged once or twice? Plenty of them. But friends? Mandy had been right; his family is notorious for being abysmal at normal friendships.

_Shit. Am I really this clueless?_

Mickey feels himself go through the five stages of fucking grief, right then and there, over the course of approximately 60 seconds.

_Nah, I’m not gay. I’m not that type of guy._

_Fuck that asshole, fuckin’ walkin’ in here gettin’ in my face sittin’ on my goddamn lap like he owns the place, makin’ me question my entire fuckin’ life._

_So my whole life was a lie? Everything I’ve thought about myself? Where do I even go from here?_

_Listen. God? Hey, God, you out there? I know this is my first call, but could you just give me a hard-on for a girl right now? Literally any female. Any girl at all. So I can go to sleep. I will devote my life to spreading your miraculous word. I swear._

_I guess that answers it, then. I really am an idiot. I like dudes._

Mickey sucks in an unsteady breath and his mind, without his consent, wanders back to his last interaction with Ian. He groans when, again, he starts to feel that heat that, in the past three hours, has become such a nuisance. What is he, fourteen fucking years old? He is _not_ going to jerk off to the thought of that ginger asshole just fucking... _sitting_ on him. No. He has more self-respect than that.

_Do I really, though?_

No one would know, he reasons.

_I would know._

Mickey scoffs at himself and rolls onto his side. He’s just as much of a fucking predator as those pruney queens paying Ian for it.

_You’re, like, the nicest person I’ve ever met._

And here he is, just as creepy as all the other gays. Real chivalrous.

It’s times like these when Mickey really wishes he had a hobby. Like playing an instrument, or drawing, or writing, even fucking knitting would help focus his energy somewhere else, but he doesn’t do shit but work and smoke and walk on the beach in the winter.

_Does Ian have hobbies? What does he write in his journal? He said the only thing he’s good at is stripping, sex work, but--_

His thoughts are cut short, and Mickey smacks a hand to his face as the image of Ian dancing in skimpy shorts shoves its way into his brain.

_Alright. That’s it._

Mickey tears his covers away from his legs, and storms out of his room, quietly (but still with a very mean, hopefully gut-wrenching stare to make up for the lack of physical force) shutting his door, making his way to the bathroom. He flicks the light switch on as violently as one could possibly flick on a light switch and stands, chest nearly heaving, glaring at himself in the mirror with rage.

He points at himself, and watches his reflection copy the action. “Chill. The fuck. Out.” When nothing changes, he throws his hands up in exasperation and looks over at the shower.

“Looks like you’re my last option,” he mutters, reluctantly turning the knob to freezing cold.

* * *

  _October 29, '15_

_I think the one thing that I keep the most to myself is that I still go to church. It’s not that I hide it, but if you’re too open about it, people tend to look at you a certain way, like you think you’re better than everyone else. I definitely won’t be telling my new friends any time soon. They’d never let it go, not until I renounced it altogether, even if I insisted that I don’t even believe in God._

_I went alone today because Fiona had somewhere else to be and she took Liam with her and all my other siblings don’t go anyway and everyone kept congratulating me for pulling myself up by my bootstraps and coming anyway instead of staying home to sleep but what they don’t understand is that it’s not about God or religion, it’s about not being alone and here is somewhere that I can do that. I sat with a pair of abandoned parents and everybody kept looking at me as if I was an orphan child and the pastor preached about faith and believing that Jesus can and will perform miracles in our lives but I definitely don’t think I believe all that anymore._

_Fiona comes with me, usually, not because she believes any of it, but because it’s something we’ve always just done. Me and her. Everyone slowly dropped off, some sooner than others, but Fiona and me, we just kept going. To feel less alone._

_I don’t like the way they look at us sometimes, like we make them sad because we’re poor, even though the church is tucked in between a Dollar General and a Wells Fargo on a broken road riddled with smoke breaks and empty bottles. But, they smile, and we smile back and eat their food and drink their coffee and laugh at their jokes. To feel less alone._

_The righteous are the slyest liars in history and religion is dead and nothing I could possibly say would ever be new news. Our generation is dropping off the cliff and leaving God behind at the top, grasping with useless fingers. But we keep coming back out of fear of hitting the bottom without a cord. We keep coming back. To feel less alone._

_It’s much quieter than they let you believe. Losing your religion. They write so many loud songs with loud guitars and loud angry voices about God not existing but it’s a quieter thing. It’s like taking a medicine for a chronic illness and slowly, over the years, realizing that it’s becoming less and less effective until it’s just useless to you all around and you move on to the next thing. And sometimes people are lucky enough to die with it still working, but most of us give up when we feel it slipping, and we move on. Because religion is a vice just like anything else, something to sink your claws into when the going gets tough, right up there with crack and booze and sex, it’s all in the same category. You pretend it helps and by the time you’re on your way out for good, there’s not much you can do to reverse the damage it’s done._

_There’s a boy at my church, a tall blonde boy with a younger brother who looks just like him, and a father who hardly speaks, and a mother who gave up church and moved on to an affair. I often want to talk to him but I don’t know what to say._

_I want to let him talk because he seems like the kind of kid that bottles everything up and loses himself in laughter and focuses aggression into sports and so no one asks him if he has something to say. But of course he has something to say, because he doesn’t sing with everyone else and when people aren’t looking his eyes go dull and he stares at one spot and doesn’t look away for minutes._

_There’s a girl with pristine makeup and wild red hair that uses a leather jacket as a shield, and she walks in precisely 6 minutes late every Sunday and sits down with her mother and every head turns because she’s beautiful, she’s a spectacle and she knows it. She likes to be untouchable and distant and independent and she lets people know whenever she can without saying it directly that she doesn’t need them, she doesn’t need God, she doesn’t need anybody. She never gives a serious answer because that’s too hard and she’s figured it out; if you don’t care for long enough, people will stop expecting it of you, so she cracks jokes and takes the piss and shows up to church hung over and grasping for caffeine and everybody just pretends that she’s one of them and it drives her fucking insane, and every Sunday at the end of the pomp and circumstance she leaves in her own car without saying goodbye to a soul._

_I want to tell her that it’s ok to need people, but I know she’ll just laugh at me and then all the other kids will laugh, too, because she’s found herself dead inside like a large percentage of the world, so no matter what anyone says she’ll kick her feet up onto the table and scribble on her program and give a long worked on smirk that silently says “fuck you.” She’s in love with her best friend, a girl with a pretty smile and perfect blonde hair and a silly laugh and a dad who’s overdosed more than once. They’ve known each other from the womb, it’s apparent, but I think I’m the only one who can see the unrequited love._

_There’s a girl with abusively overprotective parents who hardly speaks, and stares at the redheaded girl with a mix of disdain and fear, and I know she doesn’t know where she fits in the world or even in her own skin, and when I hear her tell her friend that she feels like a boy inside it’s less surprising than even she (he?) can imagine._

_This is why I keep coming. To observe the colorful array of pretenders, like myself. To feel less alone._

_I wonder what I look like to everyone else. I wonder what they know about me. I wonder if they know that sometimes I have months where my fingers won’t stop buzzing, and months where I have trouble believing that I’m real. I wonder if they know about the man I meet four times a month, to spend twenty minutes on my knees so I can buy myself something pretty._

__No, they don’t know a thing. No one does.__

* * *

 

It’s exactly 6 am when Mickey decides he could get away with being up and about without one of his siblings murdering him. What he doesn’t expect, when he saunters out to the kitchen after relieving himself, is to see that his redheaded nightmare has beaten him to the punch. Ian is slouched against the counter, eating what appears to be cereal, but Mickey’s vision is so tunneled on Ian himself that the kid could be eating sawdust and Mickey wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

“Mornin’!” Ian calls to Mickey with a wide, chipper smile. All Mickey can do is grunt in response. Coffee first, Ian second. That way, Mickey’s newfound sexual frustration won’t end with the source dead on his kitchen floor. When he makes his way to the coffee pot, he finds it already full. Confused and borderline irritated, it takes him about six gulps of his first cup to finally feel clear headed enough to speak in full sentences.

“The fuck are you doing so awake this early?” Mickey huffs out, voice still thick with sleep.

“Getting ready to go for a run,” Ian answers, gesturing with his empty spoon to the tank top and pair of what Mickey assumes are running shorts he has adorned.

He looks fucking fantastic. Mickey hates his guts.

“You run a lot?” Mickey asks, out of courtesy.

“‘Course. I was on the football team,” Ian says through a mouthful of Cheerios. “Old habits die hard, ya know. Gotta keep my body if I wanna, like, eat and keep living and stuff.”

“Right.” Mickey is torn between directing every ounce of anger in his body towards the way his knees waver slightly at the idea of Ian on the high school football team, and processing the surprise he feels at Ian’s ever present bluntness about the way he makes money. The former quickly becomes more urgent.

“You ever try it?” Ian asks.

“Running?” Mickey asks incredulously. Ian shrugs. Mickey mirrors him. “More of a weightlifting kinda guy. Don’t like the way running makes me feel like I’m fuckin’ asthmatic.”

Ian laughs. “Wherever I go, I stay at least long enough to take a run a couple mornings in a row. There’s always like, this spot, anywhere you go, if you reach it around sunrise, it’s fucking religious.”

Mickey huffs out a breath. “Yeah. Okay. Still prefer not killin’ myself.”

There’s something different about the way Ian is talking to him now, compared to last night. He seems more open, less glossed over, but at the same time, much less vulnerable. His voice has taken a dramatic shift from the slinking, smoky velvet it was yesterday to, really, just a normal, friendly tone.

_He thinks we’re just bros now._

Mickey takes full responsibility.

And they are. That’s all they should be. Less, even. Just acquaintances. One week crashing here until he can get on his feet, and Mickey doubts he’ll ever see the guy again. Or, he never _should_ see him again, lest his unresolved feelings escalate and his impeccable self control falter.

Ian finishes the bowl of cereal and drinks the remaining milk, a small bead dribbling down his chin, which he quickly catches with his thumb, sucking the white liquid from his finger and wiping the remaining, shining trail from his skin with the back of his hand.

Mickey doesn’t notice that he’s staring, lips parted, until the loud _clink_ of Ian’s bowl being placed in the sink shakes him back to reality.

Impeccable self control.

_I’m acting like a fucking teenage girl._

“Alright! I’m off,” Ian announces, pushing away from the counter and, without a second glance at Mickey, steps purposefully towards the door.

“When you gonna be back?” Mickey calls after him.

Ian pauses, hand hovering over the knob. “An hour? Two, tops.”

Mickey nods. “When you get back we’re gonna go find you a job.”

Ian brightens, smiling widely. “Great! I’ll be ready.”

“Great!” Mickey mimics back, voice raising in pitch, sarcastically happy. “Now, get outta here.” He raises his mug to his lips and averts his gaze. If he isn’t talking, he’s in danger of standing there and just _staring_ at Ian, so it’s better to avoid looking at him altogether, Mickey surmises.

“Later,” Ian says, and Mickey gives a tiny, two finger salute, turning away, towards the kitchen cupboards, to signify the end of the conversation. He only realizes he was holding his breath when the front door thuds shut. He lets his forehead fall to the wood of the cabinet in front of him.

A _week._ He could always bail, and kick Ian out, but Mickey’s a man of his word. And the very idea of turning Ian back over to unmoderated prostitution makes a fire burn in Mickey’s chest, and not in the good sense. No, he’ll just have to deal with it.

It’ll wear off. He’ll spend more time with the guy, and something’s bound to be a turn off, a deal breaker.

_But what if it gets worse? Could it really get worse than_ this _?_

Probably. Definitely. If he’s this wrecked in less than 24 hours, he’ll be dead by tomorrow. Deceased. 6 feet the fuck under.

In what is technically his second shower for the day, he runs through a list of businesses he knows are hiring. It’s a short list. The ritzy seafood restaurant at the outlet needs a bartender, but won’t hire anyone under 21. The Grotto’s...no, no, they just took on a shit ton of Swedish kids. Maybe the carnival would have a position pushing tickets, but Mickey can say from experience that the job is lower than bottom of the barrel. The pay sucks, the people suck, the coworkers suck.

And then, of course, there is the position that just opened at Leo’s, with Mickey’s shift to Assistant Manager, but Mickey would rather remove every single one of his leg hairs with a pair of tweezers than have Ian at his workplace every day, flaunting his stupid biceps in his stupid tank tops and wiping sweat from his stupid forehead. Maybe the sight of Ian in a hairnet would throw some water on everything, but when Mickey tries to picture it, he highly doubts it would have any effect. It’s fucking selfish, but Mickey rejects that idea quickly.

He thinks back to what Ian said, about wanting to dance at a club. Mickey hates the idea. He _hates_ it. But, it isn’t his life, and Ian _certainly_ is not his. As long as Ian isn’t fucking old dudes at low rates, the way he makes a living shouldn’t be any of Mickey’s concern.

“It’s just dancing,” he says quietly to himself, flicking his soaking hair from his face and relaxing back into the warm spray. “Just dancing.”

The image of the prospective dancing forces itself back into Mickey’s mind, causing him to turn the water’s temperature far down with a tired sigh.

___Impeccable_ self control. _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't expect daily updates, I just had a day off and I'm always pretty enthusiastic when starting something new.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> validate me.

It’s about an hour and a half until Ian comes back, which Mickey fills with drinking another cup and a half of coffee and absentmindedly watching the news.

_Another hurricane…_

_Robbery on 5th…_

_Missing child…_

Mickey’s eyes refocus at this opener, and he half expects Ian’s face to pop onto the screen. It doesn’t, and instead Mickey is shown the gentle smile of a 5 year old boy with big brown eyes.

Is anyone even _looking_ for Ian?

 

* * *

 

_November 1, ‘15_

_Tonight was homecoming, and my wish came true. We all went as a group._

_We met at Marce’s house, and I realized why she’s so smiley: her parents are the nicest people in the world! It makes me wonder why she hangs out with our group. She doesn’t have much to feel mopey about. She lives in this nice, white picket house far out of the South Side, with a Starbucks two blocks down and, like, landscaping._

_Anyway, her parents made us all get together and take pictures in our fancy clothes. I really thought I was going to have to settle for a button down and khaki pants, but Lip let me borrow a suit that Amanda bought him and, even though it doesn’t really fit exactly right, it still felt like a relief to be dressed like everyone else. I’m surprised Jaq dressed right for the occasion, but he looked great. Everything black except the red carnation on his lapel._

_Roz pulled through in both the pastel blue department and the not asking me to go with her department. In fact, I don’t think she asked anyone to go with her. Maybe she wanted to be asked, but I’m still kind of proud of her for going stag._

_Nate and Jeffrey looked great too, but Marce was breathtaking. Her red lips seemed to perfectly match the carnation on Jaq’s lapel, and her lacey black dress was something of a masterpiece._

_In the photos, I’m standing in between Roz and Jaq. I saw a few of them. I really look pretty happy._

_Being with Marce’s parents and my friends got me thinking about my own family. Specifically, why the hell do they ignore everything I do?_

_Sure, Lip gave me the suit, but when I walked down the stairs and announced that I was leaving, no one even looked at me. If it had been Carl or Lip or even Debbie, everyone would have been oohing and ahing until they were late leaving._

_This isn’t a new thing, but I’ve just never realized before how much it bothers me._

_When I made it onto the varsity football team my sophomore year, the only celebration I got was “That’s nice, Ian.” I can’t remember a time that anyone has bothered to show up at my games._

_When I got an A in trigonometry, after months of blood, sweat, and tears working at it, it was immediately overshadowed by Lip’s SAT scores. (Were we really surprised that he scored high? Did it really deserve a party?)_

_Am I really that boring? What do I have to do to warrant some goddamn attention every once in awhile?_

_Maybe that’s why I like my friends so much. Being in their group draws eyes; like suddenly, I’m this mysterious, elevated being. We aren’t popular, but we sure are notable, and that actually feels better. I’m untouchable around them._

_I bet if I hadn’t come home at all tonight, my family wouldn’t have even noticed._

_The night was fun. I danced with everyone; we even got Jaq to join, and we danced together to some house music. Everyone kept laughing about how much better I am at it than the rest of the group. They even tossed a few dollars my way as a joke. I’m really starting to feel comfortable around them, like I never felt with my team. At least I finally have some people to notice me._

_I think Jaq and Marce broke up, though, if they were even together, because Marce came out of the bathroom with messy makeup and left right away, towards the very end of the night. Jaq walked me home, then. He didn’t seem too bothered by whatever happened, and while it didn’t feel right to be happy while Marce was so upset, I was secretly really glad Jaq walked me home on his own. I like him, and he told me more about himself, that he lives about two neighborhoods down with his mom and no one else._

_It didn’t surprise me that Jaq is South Side, too. From what I know, me, Jaq, Jeffrey, and Roz are born and raised Back of the Yards. I don’t know much about Nate, but I do know his family is fairly well-off._

_When we got to my house, we just kind of stood on the porch, and I think he might have wanted to kiss me, but he didn’t. I don’t know if I’m glad, to spare my conscience over Marce, or disappointed._

_I’m okay with the fact that I’m gay. But I’ve never had a real boyfriend. I’ve just only really been with guys that are a lot older, richer. It’s my dirty secret. I don’t feel good about it, but I really do like the nice things I get from it. I’m sure if I told my friends they’d turn on me, so I keep it to myself. I don’t want to hear how gross it is, and considering I’m not even out as gay, it would be a lot of new information at once. Besides, if I did get a boyfriend, I’d cut it off with my sugar daddy (Jesus Christ do I hate that term) right away._

_But around here, it’s too dangerous to be out and proud._

_I wonder if I’ll ever get to be myself if I stay in Chicago._

 

* * *

 

Maybe someone is looking for Ian, but Ian does seem well-versed in the art of eluding personal questions, giving just enough information to be satisfying but staying vague enough to protect himself, and if he’d made it all the way to the Jersey shore from Chicago without being brought back home, Mickey doubts Ian’s family will ever see him again.

Something about that makes Mickey feel hollow. The world really is just pretty harsh.

The door pushes open, and Ian makes his return, breath heavy and skin slick with sweat.

“Quick shower,” Ian exhales out, and Mickey can’t help but watch his lean figure head for the bathroom, his breath literally catching in his throat, threatening to suffocate him, when Ian pulls his damp tank top over his head, leaving Mickey with the image of Ian’s smooth, bare back burned into his mind when the bathroom door finally closes.

He directs every thought he has into simultaneously cursing Ian’s family and praising the Lord above for chasing Ian into his house.

The sound of a throat clearing turns his attention slightly to the right, where Colin leans against the frame of the hallway arch, as large and vaguely menacing as ever, Mandy standing solidly next to him, arms crossed.

“Mind explaining your new pet?” Colin asks flatly.

Mickey scoffs, turning back to the TV and slouching down on the couch. “Fuck you.”

“No, fuck you, Mick,” Colin answers, clearing the room in approximately two and a half strides and stepping in front of the television.

“Hey! I’m fuckin’ watching that,” Mickey protests. He was not, in fact, fuckin’ watching that. He doesn’t even know what _that_ currently is.

Colin seems privy to this information, as well. “Cut the bullshit, asshole. It ain’t fair to use our hard earned money to pay for your weird queer crush on a whore.”

“ _Hey,_ ” Mickey warns. “I ain’t got no crush, I’m bein’ a decent fuckin’ human being. And at least a third of that _hard earned money_ comes from my fuckin’ paycheck. We can afford to feed the kid for a week. He ain’t askin’ for prime rib.” He sniffs, before adding, “And don’t call him a whore.”

“Oh, how fuckin’ charming,” Colin shoots back, exasperated. “That’s what he _is_ , Mickey. What do you call taking money to bang? Being a wh--” Mickey stands, cutting his older brother short, their faces just inches away. Mickey makes up for what he lacks in height with a stony glare.

“And if you were ten thousand fuckin’ miles away from home, sleepin’ on the floor of a fuckin’ crackhouse, eatin’ one meal a day tops, maybe you’d be a whore, too,” Mickey spits, quietly. “At least we,” Mickey gestures between himself and his brother, “got a fuckin’ home. He,” he points in the general direction of the bathroom, “ain’t got _shit._ So grow a heart and spare a bowl of fuckin’ Cheerios, asshole.”

It’s silent, neither of the brothers wavering from the stare-down, and the tension is only snapped by the sound of Mandy’s voice.

“Well I, for one,” Mandy contributes casually, “don’t mind him being here. For a bit. He’s kinda sweet.” Both brothers look over at her, and she shrugs, leaning her weight against the doorframe beside her. “Couldn’t sleep last night, neither could he. We found each other out here and talked for a while. He’s pretty cool. Did you know he joined a circus for a little bit?”

Mickey did not know that. He ignores the jealousy swimming his gut.

_If I had just walked out into the fucking living room--_

A noise from the other direction catches the siblings’ attention. Ian stands, arms dropped awkwardly at his sides, wearing the same tank top and cargo shorts he wore the day before, his hair wet and freshly mussed by a towel.

Colin glares past Mickey at the redhead, and for a second, he’s nervous that his brother might actually make Ian leave. But, after a tense few seconds, Colin shakes his head and steps away from the television, and from Mickey.

“I gotta fuckin’ go to work,” he mutters, and he points at Ian, who stiffens in fear. “One thing goes missing. One _fuckin’_ thing. And you’re out on your ass takin’ loads for pocket change again. You get me?”

“Loud and clear,” Ian affirms, raising his hands in mock surrender. Colin nods, and drops his finger, seemingly satisfied with his intimidation tactics. He stomps out of the house without another word, and Mickey feels himself relax, falling back onto the couch.

“How much of that did you hear?” Mandy asks Ian. Mickey turns his head in interest, watching Ian scratch the back of his neck with a sheepish grin.

“Like...all of it. You guys talk pretty loud.” Ian’s eyes flit to Mickey, who averts his gaze to the top of the couch, picking at a loose string. “Thanks for standing up for me. You didn’t have to say shit.”

“Yeah, Mick, that was some pretty badass Prince Charming shit,” Mandy teases, stepping forward and falling onto the couch beside her brother. “ _Don’t call him a whore,”_ she mimicks, with a laugh.

Mickey scoffs. “I made a fuckin’ investment. I was defending _myself_.” Both Ian and Mandy raise their eyebrows, but say nothing. “And…” Mickey adds, “Colin’s an asshole, anyway. Shouldn’t say that shit about people when they’re one fuckin’ room away.”

“My brother,” Mandy sighs, “the Disney prince. Does that make me a princess?”

“Maybe the one that bangs seven dudes at once,” Mickey huffs. Ian’s laugh is the most gratifying sound on the planet. Mickey can’t help but watch his smile, answering it with his own small, muted grin. “You ready to go?”

“Whenever you are,” Ian answers, smile growing smaller, but not disappearing.

“Where’re you going?” Mandy inquires.

“Gotta find Cinderella a job,” Mickey answers as he pushes off of the couch with a huff and turns off the television.

“I don’t work ‘til 2. Can I come?” Mandy asks. Ian nods eagerly, and Mickey shrugs his approval, feigning nonchalance despite an eagerness to have Mandy as a buffer that could match Ian’s.

 

* * *

 

The walk to the gay club district is mostly filled with easy conversation between Mandy and Ian, and Mickey tells himself that he doesn’t feel the tiniest bit jealous of their seemingly natural rapport. Not even slightly. Not a smidgen.

 _Alright._ Fine. The jealousy burning in the back of his head may or may not be an embarrassing pit of despair that grows with every smile Ian gives to Mandy, and not Mickey. Whatever.

It’s not like Mickey’s really making an effort, but how could he? He feels like, if he were to open his mouth, nothing would come out but a jumble of syllables indistinguishable as any Earthly language. His mind just isn’t fucking working right, which is shitty as fuck, because his mouth and his ability to quickly string together bullshit to spout is usually all he’s got.

Ian’s walking in between the siblings, who sandwich him in, in a close-knit group, and every time Ian’s shoulder bumps Mickey, his chest flutters a consistent amount.

_I genuinely hate myself right now._

Mickey is vaguely aware that Ian and Mandy are arguing about something, but the subject escapes him. He stopped paying attention about 8 minutes ago.

“What do you think, Mickey?” Ian asks him suddenly, and Mickey almost stops dead in his fucking tracks. Thankfully, he saves face and forces his foot to take the next step without a stutter.

“‘Bout what?” Mickey asks vacantly.

“Blondes or brunettes?” Mandy asks, with slight exasperation.

Mickey sniffs. “Neither,” he answers before he has time to stop himself. Both Ian and Mandy do a double take in his direction. “I just mean I don’t have a preference,” he rushes out, to cover himself. He is _not_ about to admit that the only hair he’s interested in at the moment is of the fiery persuasion.  

 _What the_ fuck _is wrong with me?_

Ian seems sated, but Mandy remains visibly unconvinced. Whatever she’s thinking, though, she doesn’t divulge her companions.

At least she has that much decency.

“Which of you likes which, again?” Mickey finds himself asking.

“I like brunettes,” Ian says, firmly.

Mickey could melt into the sidewalk.

“But blondes are so…” Mandy starts, with a vague hand gesture and a dreamy look in her eye.

“Boring,” Ian finishes for her with a teasing smile. “Everyone likes blondes. Gimme a boy with black hair and a half hour, I’ll never need a blonde again.”

Mickey genuinely has to _choke_ down volunteering.

“You’re both too picky,” Mickey contributes, instead. “Mouth’s a mouth, right?”

Ian and Mandy both look at him, skeptical and appalled.

“You bang as many senior citizens as I have, you start to feel different,” Ian answers back in a joking tone.

Mickey barks out a laugh and pretends not to notice Ian’s satisfied expression. “Yeah, I don’t make that a habit.”

“I wouldn’t suggest it,” Ian laughs out. “Though it is weirdly comforting to know you’re always the hot one.”

Mandy opens her mouth, but Mickey beats her to it. “No,” he says firmly, pointing at her. “Do not get one fuckin’ idea. You are not bangin’ dudes for money.”

Mandy sticks her tongue out at her brother, but unsuccessfully hides a small smile.

It’s only about a minute or two more before they finally reach the district, affectionately and probably offensively called Queen Street by the locals (so much so that Mickey has no actual fucking idea what the street is really called), and Mickey stops, scanning the area, not sure where to start.

“You know anything about these places?” he finally asks Ian.

“Yeah, sure. There’s Diamonds.” He points to a whitewashed blemish of a building with a peeling wooden sign as its only identifier. “That place is sleazy as hell, but I wouldn’t be opposed to it. There’s The Saddle, but it’s got this weird leather cowboy vibe that I’m not into. There’s, uh…” Ian turns his head and seems to spot what he’s looking for. “Ah! Yeah, Marilyn’s. That place is ritzy as hell. They probably wouldn’t be down with the whole age thing. They keep it too clean. Some of their dancers have, like, smile lines they’re so legal.” Mickey snorts at that. Ian puffs out a breath that only slightly disturbs his sun-dried hair. “Fairy Tail doesn’t card at the door. Probably our best bet. There’s a club named the exact same thing back in Boystown. Isn’t that crazy? Gotta be a sign.”

“Gotta be,” Mickey mumbles. “Let’s try it, then.”

The club is, on the exterior, unremarkable, a theme that continues as the trio steps inside. The club consists of a long, dull stretch of black walls, floor, and ceiling that creates a feeling of claustrophobia in Mickey’s chest. The empty bar is black and glassy, shoved up against one wall, and raised podiums dot the space, some with poles extending to the ceiling, some just bare stages.

“Amazing that it’s open at 8 in the fuckin’ morning,” Mickey comments.

“Gotta get ready for the day drinkers,” Ian says breezily.

“Who comes to a gay club just to be an alcoholic?” Mandy asks.

“You’d be surprised,” Ian starts as he leads them towards the back of the club. “Family man types like to tell their wives they’re going on a fishing trip or whatever and then come around here to get wasted and screw each other. Gotta be like...a quarter of the profits for these places.”

Both Mickey and Mandy respond with an interested, “Huh.”

They find an inconspicuous pair of doors, down the wall from the bathrooms, respectively labeled ‘Main Office’ and ‘Employees Only’.

“You sure about this?” Mickey asks Ian, who stands with his fist lifted, ready to knock on the office door.

Ian briefly taps his fingers against his thigh, and then knocks on the door solidly, in response to Mickey’s question.

It’s a few seconds before the door swings open, in which Mickey swallows down the urge to pull Ian and his sister the fuck out of here.

An overweight forty something opens the door, with shoulder length hair and no chin.

When he doesn’t say anything, Mickey decides to speak first, but not without a (possibly unwarranted) gigantic roll of his eyes.

“You hirin’?”

The guy sniffs, gaze roving over Mickey’s body for a solid twenty seconds. “You’re a bit shorter than we usually take,” he finally says, “but we could probably capitalize on the whole hot tattooed thug schtick.”

Mickey blinks, squinting at the guy incredulously. “The fuck--for him, not me. Jesus,” he hisses, pointing to Ian.

The guy’s gaze switches to scrutinize Ian similarly, and Mickey wants to backhand the hungry look right off the asshole’s face.

_This is the shittiest idea anyone has ever had in the history of time._

“Now _you..._ are perfect,” the guy surmises, licking his thin lips. Ian hooks his thumbs into his pockets and averts his gaze, shifting under the stare. “You can dance, right?”

“Why the fuck would he be looking for a job as a dancer if he can’t dance?” Mickey cuts in.

“What are you, his pimp?” the dick sighs at Mickey. “I’m pretty sure the kid can answer questions on his own.”

Mickey glares daggers at him, but manages to keep his mouth shut.

“You ever danced at a club before?” the guy asks Ian.

Ian nods, clasping his hands behind his back. “Sort of. For a little bit.”

“And what ended it?” the guy prompts.

Ian looks from the floor, to the guy, very briefly to Mickey, and then back to the guy, and finally shrugs. “Moved outta town?”

“Hm.” The guys eyes travel up and down Ian’s body one more time, and Mickey has to fight the urge to officiate a marriage between his own knuckles and the guy’s nose.

_I really have to chill the fuck out._

“Alright. You gotta dance for me first, though. Can’t blindly hire you just because you’re cute, get me?”

Ian blinks. “Sorry?”

The guy blinks back. “I said you have to dance. Now. Just in front of me and your friends.”

Ian opens his mouth, and closes it again, eventually just shrugging and spinning on his heel, taking a step towards the closest podium.

“Wait,” the guy calls out, an evil grin spreading across his face. He turns to Mickey, his beady eyes fixing to stare directly into Mickey’s. He points to one of the benches spanning the wall of the club. “Go stand over there.”

Mickey stares at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

The guy’s grin spreads even wider. “It’s easy to stand up there and move your hips. Lap dances are the hardest.”

“Lap d-- oh, no. No. No _fuckin’_ way,” Mickey says firmly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not happenin’.”

The guy shrugs, turning back to his office. “Can’t help your friend, then, I guess.”

Mickey looks over at Mandy in exasperation, who glares at him pointedly, and then over at Ian, who looks at him, silently pleading, with a tilt of his head.

_The single shittiest idea._

The office door is half closed, before Mickey reaches an open hand out and stops the swinging door with a dull thud. The guy turns back around, watching expectantly, and Mickey hesitates for a few seconds, before turning and treading reluctantly to the bench. He gives everyone in the room a look that could kill, with outstretched arms.

“Happy?” he asks nobody in particular.

“Immensely,” the douchebag owner says. He directs his attention to Ian. “Take your shirt off.”

Ian doesn’t seem to hesitate, and Mickey has no time to avert his eyes before he faces Ian’s shirtless torso, smooth, cut, with a large tattoo of a swallow in flight across the right side of his ribs.

Mickey briefly considers mass murder.

“I’ll get some music started,” the owner says, a little too gleefully, disappearing into his office. Fucking creep.

Something with a driving beat and synth guitar starts playing, who the fuck knows what, and the owner reappears, gesturing Ian towards Mickey.

Ian just stares at him for a few moments, blankly, seeming to briefly leave this existence and go somewhere else. Then, when he comes back to Earth, his entire demeanor changes, and Mickey feels his own soul leave his body.

Where the wide-eyed, easy going kid had been standing, the looming, smoky eyed person from last night now gazes straight at Mickey.

_I’m going to die now. I’m going to explode, and they’re going to have to scrape me off the fucking walls._

Ian takes four steps forward, bringing him chest-to-chest with Mickey, and Mickey feels his cock twitch when Ian places a hand on Mickey’s chest and pushes him, roughly but precisely, to sit on the bench behind him. Ian runs a hand down his own abs, and then smoothly settles himself onto Mickey’s lap, straddling him, and rocking up against him with the beat.

Every single fucking inch of Mickey’s body is on fire.

“Sorry about this,” Ian whispers into his ear, his breath hot, causing a contrasting shiver to run down Mickey’s spine. “Owe you one.”

He could have been speaking Russian, for all Mickey understands of it.

When Ian grabs him by the collar with one hand and by the wrist with the other, placing Mickey’s hand on his bare waist, Mickey can’t stop the sharp exhale that he fights to mask.

_Why me? God, what the fuck did I ever do to deserve this?_

Mickey quickly realizes that the biggest issue with living 19 years unaware of your own sexuality is the lack of opportunity to practice methods to kill a hard-on when Ian spins, back to Mickey’s chest, reconnecting his hold on Mickey’s collar and placing his other hand on Mickey’s thigh, grinding against him shamelessly.

Mickey’s only saving grace is looking over Ian’s shoulder to glance at Mandy, who stands with her arms crossed, mouth agape, eyes amused. He feels some of the heat leave his body with the thought that his _sister_ is watching them.

But the feeling of Ian, the smell of Ian, the concept of Ian, it’s fucking overwhelming, and Mickey tries his hardest to look like he’s uncomfortable, not turned on beyond belief. He has no idea how Ian  _couldn't_ notice the bulge forming itself against the fabric of Mickey's jeans, entirely defying his will.

_This is fucking ridiculous. This would literally only happen to me._

Ian spins back around, falling to his knees in between Mickey’s thighs, placing a hand on each of Mickey’s legs and throwing him a sultry smirk, and Mickey can’t help but think that Ian is the single most impressive performer he’s ever encountered.

_Also the single sexiest--_

His thoughts are literally cut off, flat-lining when Ian slowly slides up, maintaining intense _I-want-to-fuck-you_ eye contact, hands inching up Mickey’s thighs in support, one straying further than the other and smoothing up past his leg, just barely missing his crotch, and trailing up his torso and chest to catch his collar for a third time.

Ian settles fully back on Mickey’s lap, lips inches away, and Mickey doesn’t want to do anything less in that moment than surge up and kiss the shit out of him.

What follows, instead, is a reaction halfway in between fight and flight.

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey exclaims, cutting through the atmosphere, causing Ian to pause, and the owner to raise an interested eyebrow. “How fuckin’ long do we gotta do this for? He’s good. Hire him.”

Ian, to Mickey’s dismay, does _not_ remove himself from his current position, instead opting to twist his neck to look at the owner, drawing even closer to Mickey, and wobbling unsteadily, causing Mickey to reach out to wrap an arm around his waist, to keep him from tumbling off.

_I’m genuinely going to pass out._

The owner squints at the pair, before shrugging and nodding his assent with a self-satisfied smile. “Alright, that was impressive. You’re hired.”

“Great, now can you turn this fucking music off? It’s 8 in the goddamn morning, it’s givin’ me a headache,” Mickey complains, finally able to exhale when Ian climbs off his lap, but not before giving him a grateful, almost personal grin. He can’t tell if he’s physically shaking or if his brain is playing shitty tricks on him.

“Well,” the owner starts with a clap of his hands as Ian gathers his shirt from where he tossed it onto a podium and pulls it back over his head. “I didn’t catch your name, sweetheart.”

“Curtis,” Ian says with a winsome smile.

“Call me Tug,” the owner says, extending a hand, and Mickey snorts.

“The fuck kinda name is Tug?” he laughs before he can stop himself. His sister and Ian both throw him looks that request he shut the fuck up.

“Comes from Tucker. I’ll leave why to your imagination,” Tug says with a gross smile as Ian accepts his handshake. It’s enough to completely kill any remaining trace of arousal in Mickey’s gut.

“When can I start?” Ian asks, his hands returning to his pockets.

“Tonight at 11 sound good for you?” Tug suggests. “You’ll start on the floor, just giving two minute dances to whoever can pay for it. It’ll be at least a week or two until you can get your own podium, if you’re bringing in enough attention.”

Ian grins. “I won’t disappoint,” he promises.

“You haven’t thus far,” Tug muses, with a lick of his lips and another round of gazing at Ian’s body. Mickey decides to shut it down before he gets any ideas.

“Yeah, alright. We done here?” Mickey asks, shooting Tug a glare that speaks volumes.

 _Just fucking try it._  

Tug shrugs. “We’ll do all the paperwork shit on your break tonight.”

Mickey doesn’t wait for a farewell, turning and heading for the door.

“Thanks!” he hears Ian call out as he and Mandy hurry after Mickey. “That was easier than I expected,” he adds, more quietly as they push open the club door. Mickey squints against the sudden affronting sunlight.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Mandy asks, disbelief flooding her tone. “You gotta teach me that shit.”

Mickey makes a face at that, immensely disturbed by the idea of Mandy doing _any_ of the same things that Ian just did.

“I told you it’s the only thing I’m good at,” Ian answers as they hurry back down Queen Street. “What do you think I did for the circus?”

“Your act was fuckin’ stripping?” Mickey inquires, with a lilt at the end.

“It was some weird adult theater shit,” Ian explains. “There was a guy who could suck his own dick, a woman with this crazy long tongue…”

“You’re shitting me,” Mickey says flatly. “That’s gotta be illegal somehow.”

Ian laughs breathily. “Pretty much everything about it was illegal. I didn’t do the porn shit, though. Just gave dances. Some pseudo-Moulin Rouge shit or whatever. Wore feathers and eyeliner and everything.”

“Yeah, _that_ makes it better,” Mickey mumbles.

Mandy grins devilishly. “Did your act have a name?”

Ian wrinkles his nose. “Maybe.”

Mickey and Mandy look at each other, and then back at Ian, expectantly.

Ian notices, and rolls his eyes. “No. It’s embarrassing.”

“You _literally_ just gave my brother a lap dance in front of me,” Mandy points out. She digs in her pocket for a second, and quickly produces a cigarette and a lighter.

“That’s fuckin’ true,” Mickey concedes. “I let you grind on me so you could get a job. You owe me for life now, dude.” Mickey fails to mention that he has considered _paying_ Ian for another dance approximately 10 times since they left the club.

Ian huffs out a breath, crossing his arms, and Mandy lights her cigarette, taking a drag and then passing it to Mickey, across Ian’s path.

“Joli Garçon,” Ian finally mumbles, with a half-hearted attempt at correct pronunciation.

Mandy’s mouth forms an amused ‘O’.

“Excusez-moi?” she asks, with an exaggerated posh accent.

“Joli Garçon,” Ian repeats, louder, with a sigh. “It means pretty boy.”

The siblings look at each other, up at Ian’s irritated expression, and back at each other again before bursting out laughing.

“Tell me you weren’t the one to come up with that gem,” Mickey says through a snort.

“I didn’t. _I wasn’t,”_ Ian insists. “The boss of the whole thing did. I swear to God, alright, it was humiliating as hell.”

“What’s with the fuckin’ French?” Mickey asks.

“ _I don’t know,_ ” Ian stresses. “I don’t know, I don’t even think he spoke it. Just thought it sounded sexier. Probably just put shit through Google Translate until he found something he liked.”

Mickey offers Ian the cigarette then, and he takes it gratefully, sucking in a thoughtful drag, smoke billowing from his parted lips. The simple action _should not_ be so attractive.

A quiet settles over them as the streets narrow and houses dot their peripheral vision, and they pass the cigarette between themselves for about a minute more before Mandy throws it off to the side. Mickey can’t help but take this time to think that Ian is the single most interesting person he has ever met. He wants to know everything about him. What is his family like? What was Chicago like? Fuck, Ian could probably talk about pocket lint for an hour and hold Mickey’s full attention.

Mickey realizes, suddenly, that the only thing stopping him from just _asking_ about Ian is his own unfounded trepidation. So, he does what he needs to do: namely, he gets the fuck over it and asks a question.

“How long you been in Azurra?” he asks, briefly considering pulling another cigarette from the pack nestled in his pocket, conceding when his mind won’t release the thought of another hit of nicotine. He lights it without trouble and smacks away Mandy’s hand when she reaches to pull it from his lips.

“‘Bout two weeks. Dropped off from the circus sometime in March, kinda drifted towards the coast after that.”

And there it was; that perfect mix of honest and withholding. But it doesn’t satiate Mickey this time. Another question wouldn’t kill anybody.

“What happened with the circus gig? They find someone prettier?” Mickey teases, offering Ian the second cigarette, earning a mock-hurt glare from Mandy.

Ian snorts. “Unlikely.”

“Real humble,” Mickey observes.

Ian ignores him, helping himself to another draw on the cigarette before he hands it, to Mickey’s extreme irritation, to Mandy, who flashes a satisfied grin and finishes it.

“They wanted to go to Nashville,” Ian finally elaborates, after a few moments of shuffling quiet.

“Hm?” Mickey responds. He had almost forgotten that he even asked anything.

“The troupe. They wanted to move south to tour. But I said _no fuckin’ way,_ ” he draws these last three words out, like they’re very important. “Left ‘em at the Ohio/Pennsylvania border, right before they took the turn to West Virginia.”

“‘S wrong with the south?” Mandy asks. They turn onto their home street.

“Nothing, if you’re straight,” Ian answers with a small smile.

“Right,” Mandy says.

“So how’d you end up stayin’ in _this_ shithole city?” Mickey asks.

“Aw, it’s not so bad here. It kinda reminds me of where I grew up,” Ian confides. “Maybe that’s why I’ve stayed, I don’t really know. Tried settling in Philly but it scared the shit out of me sleeping on the streets there. Thought maybe South Philly would just be another South Side but…” he shakes his head. “It’s a lot easier when you’re _related_ to the bad people in your bad neighborhood.”

They’re only about five houses away from the Milkovich residence, but Mickey finds himself wishing that they had another hour to go. He gets the feeling that, once back in the house, there won’t be much more opening up on Ian’s part.

Not to mention the fact that the conversation and the brisk pace are the only things keeping Mickey’s mind off of the morning’s very colorful events.

“South Side, huh?” Mickey prompts.

“Authentic Canaryville,” Ian elaborates, with just the slightest lilt of sarcasm.

“You ever kill anybody?” Mandy jokes, and Ian sniffs.

“Nah, but one time we found out that my father had been cashing my Aunt Ginger’s social security checks 12 years after she’d died on a crack binge and he’d buried her in our back yard and told everyone she went to live in Wisconsin, so we had to steal a lady from a nursing home to pose as our Aunt Ginger to trick the government into not arresting us all.”

Mickey and Mandy begin to laugh at the recounting, assuming it a joke, as they climb the stairs to their front porch and unlock their front door. Ian stops in the doorway, watching them as their laughter subsides, eyebrows bunched together, and when Mickey turns around, his laughter dies out.

“Wait you--you fuckin’ serious?” Mickey asks with another disbelieving laugh.

Ian shrugs. “Then we had to dig up her bones and fake her death like two years later. My sister cut a toe off of a body we got from the morgue with a pair of scissors so it would match Ginger’s feet.”

Mickey’s first instinct is to call bullshit, but Ian shows every known sign of being completely honest. His tone is casual, his gaze is steady, his words are confident.

Ian’s face breaks out into a grin. “It was pretty fucking hilarious after the fact, though,” he laughs, stepping fully into the house and closing the door behind him.

“Jesus,” Mandy chuckles out. “Any more stories like that? You could write a book or something.”

Ian smiles in reminiscence. “Yeah, we went through some crazy shit.”

The room falls quiet, Ian smiling at the ground, and Mickey finds himself watching him, his own small smile forming at the sight of Ian’s.

Mandy glances between the two and exhales. “Yeah, well, I haven’t showered yet. I’m gonna go do that.”

Mickey nods his approval as Mandy walks to the bathroom and shuts the door.

After a second more of silence, Ian clears his throat and Mickey returns his attention to the redhead, catching his eye.

“Hey, thanks, again,” Ian starts.

“Would you stop fuckin’ thanking me? Told you not to mention it,” Mickey counters.

“Yeah, but, like, at the club. Thanks. I know it must have been weird to have me…” he gestures vaguely up and down Mickey’s body. “You know. For a straight guy. So thanks, it meant a lot.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, voice softer. He scratches his cheek thoughtfully. “It wasn’t too bad, anyway. Bet you’ll make some guy real happy one day.” He talks, but his mind is only focused on one thing.

_For a straight guy._

Ian’s big, borderline dopey smile catches Mickey off-guard. What did he say again?

_Bet you’ll make some guy real happy one day._

_Some guy._

“I hope so,” Ian says, wistfully, eyes focusing somewhere between the top of the wall and the ceiling.

Mickey wonders what kind of dream man Ian is picturing. His heart deflates a little when he remembers it probably isn’t him.

“I think I’m gonna go try to sleep a bit. So I can have enough energy for my shift tonight,” Ian says, breaking Mickey’s train of thought.

“Alright, Red,” Mickey agrees, absently, too busy in his own mind to do much else. He’s fucking torn. Torn between his old comfort and this new, tugging unsettled feeling in his stomach, in his chest, in the back of his head. Torn between the safety the end of week could bring him and the idea of the regret he might feel when it’s all over. Torn between fear and curiosity.

It’s enough to make him say something.

“Brunettes, huh?” he calls after Ian, who is on his way to Iggy’s room. The boy stops, turns slowly, and nods, with a confused expression.

Mickey inhales sharply, cocking an eyebrow. “I always preferred carrot tops.”

There’s a flash of something in Ian’s eyes, something darker, in between uncertainty and hunger. He raises his eyebrows, gives Mickey a small smirk, and then he’s gone.

It’s not much. But it’s definitely something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple things  
> 1\. Azurra is totally fictional and idk shit about the Jersey shore I grew up going to Delaware/Maryland so spare me.  
> 2\. Yeah I did reuse the Fairy Tail because I'm lazy as hell. Sorry lmao. Also idk how it's actually spelled but I chose that way bc like...Fairy = Gay, Tail = Ass? Gay Ass? It seemed fitting.  
> 3\. I have no fuckin' clue what I'm doing, ever!  
> 4\. The song I was thinking of during the dance was WOW by Marilyn Manson ? kinda a trash song whatever find your own favorite stripper music, what do I care.  
> 5\. This chapter is tropey as fuck and I enjoyed every second of its creation.  
> That's all.


	5. Chapter 5

Mickey’s first shift as assistant manager of Leo’s is fairly smooth. Mickey’s always had a knack for leadership, never hesitated to step the fuck up and get shit done when nobody else would. His brain just seems to work exactly the way it needs to when it comes to problem-solving; the steps to the end just seem to lay themselves down neatly, letting him easily direct people into solving the issue.

He’s relieved that the job is one that requires his constant attention and thought, because every time he finds himself with time to breathe, he ends up realizing with increasing horror how _gay_ he’s been his entire fucking life.

Elementary school, there was that kid with platinum blonde hair that Mickey always tried to be around. His heart would beat faster and his laugh would come easier. When the boy moved away in fourth grade, Mickey secretly cried for a week.

Then there was Troy, one of Iggy’s friends, who was especially nice to Mickey when he was just a dumb kid, maybe eleven or twelve, wanting to tag along. He had a kind, dimpled smile and he’d laugh at Mickey’s obnoxious jokes, even if they weren’t funny, and sometimes he’d choose to play Mortal Kombat or Super Smash Bros with Mickey over getting stoned with Iggy and their other friends, if Mickey asked. Mickey thought he had just looked up to him, like another older brother, but it hits him like a freight train that what he had felt was a raging crush, not fraternal camaraderie.

High school was when Mickey’s father, a faceless figure called only “Terry” by his older brothers, had died in prison. Mickey hadn’t known him; he’d been thrown in the joint for his involvement with the small amount of organized crime in the city while his mother was still pregnant with Mandy, when Mickey was hardly a year old. Their eldest brother, Jamie was only 12 at the time, but he made the decision that no one in the family was to see Terry again. It was for the best, of course; Terry was a piece of shit. When he wasn’t beating on Colin and Jamie or their mother, he was out on a bender or a run with his associates.

When Terry died, it wasn’t that Mickey was upset. It wasn’t even that he really cared at all about Terry in particular. He was just fucking _angry_. Angry that he’d never had the chance to tell his father what a piece of shit disappointment he was to Mickey and his family, and how good they were doing without him. Angry that Terry never made a fucking effort. Angry that he outlived their mother, the most caring, wise, strong person Mickey had ever known.

Mickey held onto this anger through his high school years, gaining a reputation as silent, distant, brooding; a complete loner.

There was one boy, though, with a blonde buzz cut and what seemed to be a perpetual black eye who would ask Mickey for a light on their shared smoke breaks and make Mickey laugh even when he felt at his worst. They never talked outside of those short pockets, but when the kid disappeared without a word in the middle of junior year, Mickey just felt hollow, because everybody leaves.

Everybody just fucking leaves.

“Mick, we got an issue,” one of the cashiers calls out. Mickey’s grateful beyond belief.

* * *

  _November 6th, ‘15_

_I had the Monica nightmare again last night. Everything was the same, except she was trying to pull me down onto the kitchen floor with her this time._

_It’s been two years but I still think about what happened a lot, and the dreams are a very regular thing._

_I called Jaq and I didn’t expect him to answer but he did. We met up and smoked weed and I told him about the dream and that Thanksgiving and he told me that his mom killed his dad by spiking his crack and letting him overdose and then we were quiet for a long time and at some point Jaq reached over and held my hand. I felt warm but also kind of empty._

_I don’t really understand why the world has to be like this._

* * *

 

Mickey’s shift ends and leaves him alone with his thoughts.

He wonders for a long stretch of his walk how he could have been so unaware of something so important. He deduces, finally, that it was because no one _told_ him. Not that he was gay, but that if he was, it would be alright. Mickey was always called things like “Ladies man” and “Heartbreaker” because girls just really didn’t make him nervous, and he guesses that’s the secret to success with the opposite sex, because girls _did_ like him. He just never really felt anything back. His family just assumed that’s how it was, how it was supposed to be. Mickey was the charmer.

He doesn’t blame them, but he wonders if he would have realized sooner if someone had just looked at him and said “You know, it’s ok to like boys, too.” He just never realized it was an option. No one told him it was an option.

Hearing Ian and Mandy talk about boys, about Ian’s sexuality, so casually and easily, it spurred a mix of hope and jealousy. On one hand, Mandy’s ease with Ian’s very open gayness is comforting, providing the hope that, if Mickey were to decide to tell her what he believes he now knows with certainty, she might accept it with open arms. On the other hand, watching them mesh so easily together and talk about those things, Mickey finds himself wishing it were Mandy and he. That he had the whole coming out thing over with years ago so they could just move on to being normal about it. He wants to talk about what color hair he likes and what celebrities he thinks are hot, and if the right person were to come along, he wants Mandy to be the first to know.

He wants to come out to her.

He realizes it with a stark suddenness, and he pauses at the top of a crosswalk to blink in the sleepy twilight and chew on the thought.

He thinks of Ian, and how sketchy it would look if Mickey came out 24 hours after picking up a gay hooker and welcoming him into their home. No, he’ll wait. Until Ian’s cleared out. _Then_ he’ll tell her.

Satisfied with his decision, he allows himself a small smile as he makes his way home.

When he walks through the front door and sees Ian sitting on the couch, scribbling wantonly in a thick black notebook, his heart soars. It takes him a second too long to control the smile that erupts from the fuzzy feeling, and Ian looks up just as Mickey feels it start to subside. Mickey coughs, bringing a hand to his mouth, to save face.

“Hey, Red,” he greets in passing, breezing through the room to the kitchen.

“Hey,” Ian answers in a distracted tone, without looking up from his apparently enrapturing work.

“You want a beer?” Mickey calls, but he receives no answer. He takes it as a yes, anyway.

Mickey pulls two beers from the fridge and returns to the living room, popping the cap off one and taking a sip. He stands for a second, taking a few more drinks, slightly irritated that Ian hasn’t even _looked_ at him from the time he’s walked in, considering all Mickey wants to do is stare at Ian.

Mickey decides to change this; he steps forward, and drops solidly to the couch, directly next to Ian, setting Ian’s beer down on the coffee table with a _clink_ . From a quick glance at the page Ian’s turned to, Mickey can see all he’s doing is drawing solid circles, twirling the pen around until all the space is filled in with complete black. After a few seconds, when Ian _still_ doesn’t glance his way, he leans forward and waves a hand in front of Ian’s eyes, earning a few blinks and a pause of Ian’s pen. Ian turns slightly and glances at Mickey like he’s noticing him for the first time.

“Hi,” Mickey says with a smile, finding Ian’s face unbearably, stupidly adorable.

“Hi,” Ian repeats back, with an odd look. He blinks a few more times, before returning to his scribbling.

“What are--” Mickey clears his throat and gestures to the page with his bottle. “What are ya doin’ there?”

“Thinking,” Ian replies simply.

“‘Bout what?”

Ian doesn’t answer, and Mickey decides to give him time. Mickey instead chooses to make use of Ian’s trance-like state to just _look_ at him.

It’s a borderline religious experience. Everything about Ian is beautiful, and Mickey can’t tell if it enchants him or pisses him off. His huge, red-rimmed eyes? Beautiful. His square jaw? Beautiful. His crooked mouth? Beautiful. Even his fucking freckles, garnered from the east coast sun. Beautiful.

“My mom,” Ian says, and Mickey realizes that he’s been caught staring. Ian’s green eyes peer into Mickey’s own, and Mickey finds himself hard-pressed to look away; he doesn’t. He keeps gazing back.

“Your mom, huh?”

Ian nods, and his eyebrows draw together. “I don’t know how she is. I don’t know _where_ she is.”

“Chicago?” Mickey offers. He doesn’t really care how cryptic and strange the conversation may be. There’s something open and trusting and comfortable about the way Ian’s looking at him right now, and Mickey wants to savor it.

Ian shakes his head.

“You miss her?” Mickey asks softly. Ian blinks hard.

“I don’t really have any clue what that would feel like,” Ian says. Mickey cocks his head a bit in question. Ian finally looks away, but Mickey doesn’t. He keeps watching Ian’s face. “She never stuck around long enough for being with her to be the norm.”

“Weren’t close?” Mickey asks. Ian’s eyes seem to glaze over, and Mickey wonders if he asked the wrong thing. He wants to reach out and stroke the other boy’s cheek, but he doesn’t.

“We were,” Ian says, in something close to a whisper. “And then she…” he trails off, mouth still open as if searching for the next words to say. He looks devastated, shell-shocked, like he’s somewhere else, experiencing something far worse. Mickey doesn’t hesitate this time--he reaches out before he can talk himself out of it, and runs a soothing hand through Ian’s hair, his heart hammering so loud in his chest he's sure the entire neighborhood can hear it.

There’s something tense and deeply intimate about the way Ian looks at him then, and Mickey keeps his hand in place, lightly rubbing his thumb back and forth. There’s this magnetic pull, this automatic drifting towards Ian that occurs, as Mickey tilts his head fully to the side, finding himself dangerously close to Ian’s face.

Mickey leans towards him a hair more. Ian copies him.

The sound of the door banging open rips them apart. Mickey pulls his hand back like he had placed it on a hot stove, and Ian just calmly resumes his doodling, as if nothing happened.

“Brought dinner from the restaurant,” Mandy calls, stopping when she sees Mickey’s very guilty expression. “What?” she questions.

“What?” Mickey parrots back to her, leaning back onto the couch, taking another sip of his beer and feigning complete innocence.

“You look like I caught you in the middle of a murder,” Mandy points out.

“Yeah, well, you opened the door so goddamn loud, it scared the shit outta me. What’d you do, kick it open? How’d you manage to make that much fuckin’ noise?” Mickey rants. He is, after all, the _king_ of overcompensation.

Mandy looks from her brother, to Ian, back to her brother, briefly at Ian’s notebook, down at the floor, and then back at her brother again, with a squint and a calculating expression. Finally, she sighs and heads towards the kitchen.

“Whatever. You’re actin’ weird as hell, Mick,” she says, but she seems to drop the subject. She deposits the bag of styrofoam to-go boxes on the kitchen table and returns to the living room, seating herself beside Mickey and snatching the untouched beer from the coffee table.

“”Ey, that was for Red,” Mickey protests, before he can bite back the words.

_God, when the fuck did I start sounding like such a doting girlfriend?_

“Don’t see him drinking it,” Mandy says, opening the beer with a satisfying _pop_. She glances over at Ian, who has completely spaced back out. “The fuck is up with him?” Mandy asks Mickey, none too quietly.

“Conserving his energy before he goes and gets ogled by old pervs all night,” Mickey provides, allowing Ian to maintain his spaced state. He might be imagining it, but he thinks he can see the smallest hint of a smile on Ian’s lips at Mickey’s interjection.

Mandy looks at Ian for a second longer, and then shrugs, setting down her beer and getting back up from the couch.

“I’m gonna eat,” she says, already halfway to the kitchen.

Mickey concedes. He glances over at Ian again, not wanting to disturb him, but also not wanting to eat without him.

He briefly wonders when the fuck he got so polite.

Mickey uses his knee to bump Ian’s gently. “Hey. You want dinner?” he asks gently.

“It’s lasagna,” Mandy calls out.

“It’s lasagna,” Mickey repeats matter-of-factly, with a small smile.

Ian straightens a bit, tapping the pen against the side of his notebook absently.

“I’ll get ya some,” Mickey determines. The trace of a smile reappears, and Mickey knows he’s said the right thing. Barely quelling an urge to kiss Ian lightly on the cheek (when the fuck did he get so _mushy_?), Mickey stands and makes his way to the kitchen.

Dinner consists of the three on the couch, eating reheated lasagna and watching a shitty rom-com that they’d missed the first half of, but Mandy insists is her favorite movie. Mickey can’t refrain from his endless stream of snide remarks and criticism, occasionally earning him a hard smack from his sister, but Ian laughs more than half the time, which really only encourages Mickey more. Ian seems to return to normal after he's eaten, more or less, albeit a bit more quiet than he had been on the walk home from the club. But, maybe that’s just how Ian is; how the fuck would Mickey know, anyway?

During the climactic (boring) _I love you_ scene, Mickey finds his eyes rolling as far back into his head as they can go.

“This is bullshit,” he says, pointing at the screen with his long-empty fork.

“Shut the fuck up, Mickey,” Mandy grumbles.

“They’ve known each other for, like, two fuckin’ minutes, how the fuck do _they_ know if they love each other or not? All they’ve done is stare at each other and bang like once.” Mickey believes it an excellent insight on the nature of human relationships. Mandy, however, feels differently.

“If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to smash this plate over your head,” she threatens.

“Do it, maybe I’ll black out and forget I ever saw this shitty movie.”

“You’ve never even _been_ in love,” Mandy huffs.

“How the fuck do you know?” Mickey asks incredulously.

“Because if you _had_ then you’d know that when you know, you _know_ ,” Mandy explains.

“Yeah, well, I _know_ that this movie fuckin’ sucks. That’s what I know.”

“Why do you hate happiness, Mick?” Mandy groans.

“I don’t hate happiness,” Mickey insists. “I hate bad writing.” Ian laughs. Mickey feels like a fucking high schooler again, in the best way possible.

When he catches Ian’s eye and receives a crooked smirk, he suddenly finds himself wishing Mandy would leave so Mickey could explore the possibility of _not watching_ the movie with Ian.

That’s when he catches himself. Yes, his crush has _definitely_ crossed the line from budding to full fucking bloom. He can almost feel himself blush at nothing. He needs to get himself the fuck in check.

It’s like Ian reads his mind when he stands and stretches, sighing languidly. “I should get ready to leave for work, I guess.”

Mickey glances at the clock with dismay.

_10 pm already?_

“Alright,” Mandy answers. The siblings watch Ian disappear into Iggy’s room. “Seriously, is he alright?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says shortly. “Just drop it, Mands.”

Mandy pokes his side with a playful smile and opens her mouth to say something, shutting it again quickly when Ian returns from the bedroom, backpack in tow and Iggy’s hand-me-down jacket pulled over his shoulders.

“Leavin’ already?” Mickey inquires. “Shift don’t start for another hour.”

“I wanna get there early so we can do all the official shit. Don’t really wanna stay late.”

Mickey nods. “You got a fake ID? In case he asks.”

“Yeah,” Ian confirms. “It’s seedy as hell, but something tells me Tug won’t be too picky.”

“Alright,” Mickey answers, and Ian turns for the door. “Don’t take any of their fuckin’ drugs!” Mickey calls after him. “And don’t go home with anyone, I don’t wanna be a suspect for your fuckin’ murder. Don’t have time for that.” Mickey knows that’s not the reason. He has a feeling Ian might have an idea, too.

“Yes, mom,” Ian sighs over his shoulder, and he’s out the door before Mickey can say another word.

The second the door clicks shut, Mickey can _feel_ Mandy staring at him.

“What?” Mickey asks sharply, without even looking.

“What, what?” Mandy answers.

“Why the fuck are you looking at me?” Mickey growls, turning to find his sister is, indeed, staring at him with a raised eyebrow. “What?”

He doesn’t have time to prepare before Mandy reels back and punches him on the arm, hard.

“The _fuck_ Mandy?” Mickey cries out.

“Why the _fuck_ didn’t you tell me you like dudes?” Mandy demands.

Mickey feels the blood drain from his face. He freezes, unable to tear his eyes away from his sister’s expectant face.

_So much for waiting until Ian left._

“The fuck...are you talking about?” Mickey produces weakly.

Mandy stares at him, surely taken aback by Mickey’s gall to deny anything right now, before bursting out into hysterical laughter.

“Boy, Mick,” Mandy chokes out, “have you got it _bad._ ”

“Wh--”

“Could you suck at hiding it any less?” Mandy cuts him off. “And what was that fuckin’ Nicholas Sparks shit right before I came in? Don’t think I didn’t see that through the window.”

Mickey opens his mouth, but nothing could possibly find its way from his brain to his lips, because his brain isn’t currently functioning in any way.

“I just can’t believe this _Pretty Woman_ shit. I mean, Jesus Christ, Mick, he gives you half a lap dance and you’re practically falling at his fucking feet like he's Jesus. I’ve been _waiting_ for this day to come, after all these years of you giving me shit for being boy crazy--”

“Alright! Jesus Christ,” Mickey exclaims, throwing his hands up in irritation. “A fuckin’ lot has happened today, can you chill the fuck out?”

Mandy smiles, softly, and while the initial shock of his sister suddenly becoming aware of his sexuality still lingers, Mickey finds himself relaxing the slightest bit.

“So, maybe I do,” Mickey mumbles, looking away from his sister.

“Do what?”

He allows himself a drawn-out exhale. “Like dudes.”

There’s a quiet moment, and Mickey doesn’t look up until he feels a light shove to his shoulder.

“You know I’m fine with that, Mick,” Mandy reassures him.

Mickey takes in a shaky breath, relief flooding through him. “I know. It’s just a very...recent fuckin’ development for me, too.”

There’s a comfortable, thoughtful silence, before Mandy gives Mickey another poke to the ribs. He swats her hand away.

“Ian’s a cutie,” she says teasingly.

“Shut up,” Mickey grumbles, earning himself another poke.

“I think he likes you back,” Mandy says.

“Fuck _off_. He thinks I’m straight. I already turned him down once,” Mickey explains.

Mandy sits up a little straighter. “He came onto you?”

“Last night,” Mickey says tiredly, rubbing at his eyes. “Thought he was supposed to bang me in exchange for a place to crash.”

“And you turned _him_ down? Mick, I know some _actual_ straight guys who wouldn’t have turned that down,” Mandy says, like it’s the dumbest thing she’s ever heard.

“Yeah, well. I didn’t want to do anything with him while he thought it was like…”

“A job?” Mandy finishes.

“Yeah,” Mickey confirms absently.

Mandy smiles. “And so doomed to admire from afar,” she drawls wistfully.

“And so doomed,” Mickey finds himself repeating, head falling back against the couch.

A long stretch of silence follows, in which Ian is entirely the only thing that Mickey thinks about.

Mandy’s right. He’s got it bad.

Mandy finally kicks him in the foot lightly to draw his attention back to her.

“Proud of you, Mick.”

“Thanks, Mands.”

* * *

He can’t sleep. Again.

He doesn’t know what it is about Ian that fills every fucking corner of his mind, but no matter what he thinks about, no matter how random and far away from the subject of the kid the thought is, his mind always finds some way to spin it back around to an affronting display of gay bullshit.

Right now, the flavor of the minute is the way Mickey’s hands felt on Ian’s waist. Laying in the dark, deprived of any stimulation beyond his own thoughts, he can’t stop himself from the vivid reimagining of every little fucking detail.

One minute his mind will obsess on Ian’s hand hooked onto Mickey’s collar, the next it will very meticulously pick apart the exact components of Ian’s scent, and every so often, it spills full force into the exact feeling of Ian grinding up against him.

That is where his mind roams now, and it’s ridiculous how fast he gets hard. Again.

He keeps going through this circle, of imagining the dance, to becoming painfully hard, to finding _some way_ to kill his hard-on (i.e. how fucking creepy he feels), and then right back around, but it’s becoming unbearably difficult to complete the cycle.

_I’m really just gonna have to jerk off, then. Great._

Mickey swallows, hard.

_If I just get it over with and try my best not to think of Ian, then I might not feel like such a gross asshole when I’m done._

He tries not to be too sensual and savoring about it, pulling his boxers down just enough to get a grip on his dick and unceremoniously running his hand up and down the shaft, eyes shut.

He does _not_ think about Ian. He doesn’t.

He doesn’t imagine it’s Ian’s hand instead of his. He doesn’t imagine Ian on top of him, one hand tangled in Mickey’s hair, the other running a thumb over the tip of his cock. He does _not_ imagine Ian pulling Mickey up for a messy kiss, briefly removing his hand to grind down against him, and then replacing it again, moving faster, rougher, biting down on Mickey’s lip and pulling his hair and and looking at him with _those eyes_ and insisting he come.

He does. Hard.

 _Holy shit._ He doesn’t know if he thinks that, or whispers it into the dark with a gasp as his vision is briefly tinged with white and his legs tingle.

And then he's alone, his fantasy dissolving with his open eyes, he finds himself experiencing an intense case of masturbator’s remorse.

_I’ve done it. Crossed the line into creepy. I lasted one day._

Ten minutes later, he finally falls asleep, despite his slight self-hatred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think a lot about when Monica took Ian out to a club in s2 (i think?) and how they became close and how much her suicide attempt (and her death in s7) probably affected him. But, as with everything, the show's writers sleep on Ian and his feelings so it's up to us to understand him without those canon scenes. But his face during the Thanksgiving scene is literally heart-wrenching. Thank you, Cam.


	6. Chapter 6

_November 13th, ‘15_

_I think my friends are mad at me. Well, I think they’re mad at Jaq for making Marce cry and I’m not sure but I think Jaq broke up with Marce because he likes me and so, indirectly, they’re mad at me. And because I spend so much time with Jaq, they’re just acting weird around me, like all they want to do is talk shit about Jaq but they can’t because I’m there._

_I don’t understand what the big deal is. People break up all the time. I feel bad that Marce is hurt, but they weren’t even really officially a couple, anyway. Jaq told me that himself._

_Jaq has been acting differently lately, though, and I’m not sure what it is. He’s quieter around me, and he’s stopped wanting to do our weekly sports lessons. Even so, we still spend most nights together, smoking and maybe talking and sometimes just sitting. I think we’re best friends now. I guess that’s why my other friends have gone cold._

_I miss when we were all a group, but I think we’ll get through it. In the meantime I have school and basketball season coming up to keep me occupied, so I just don’t have room for the drama._

_I had to quit my job to make more time for senior year and getting into college, but my paycheck helped pay the bills, so I’ve been doing something I’m not proud of._

_I’ve been letting Ned, the man I’m seeing, pay my share._

_It feels dirty, but I figure I’d rather take the way that helps me get out of the South Side than cling to some sense of honor and pride and be stuck in this shithole forever._

_I haven’t told my family, but honestly, as long as I’m putting down the money, I doubt they’ll ask where I’m getting it from, even if they do happen to notice I’m not working anymore._

_Not that I really hate the actual physical being with Ned. Ned is interesting. He introduces me to new things that I never would have been able to experience before. He buys me things I never would have been able to afford. I don’t love him, and he doesn’t love me, but our relationship has helped me grow as a person, I think._

_I still think about the fact that I’m a mistress. That’s all I’ve ever been. Ned isn’t the first to have this arrangement with me, and I really don’t know if he’ll be the last. It’s just so easy to detach myself from the thought that he’s married when we’re together._

_I wonder if that makes me a bad person. Or does that make Ned a bad person? Are we both bad people, or is one of us worse? On one hand, I’m not with him out of love, I’m with him out of love of material possessions and a desire to pay the bills. On the other hand, he’s not with me out of love, either, but he’s also not with his wife out of love. He’s the only one that is lying. Not me._

_Debating the moral balance of the extramarital affair I’m participating in isn’t what I meant to do when I picked up my journal._

_My English teacher is still pressuring me to join the literary magazine. I really, really don’t think I could do it. The deadlines and the expectations and everything just kind of makes me suffocate a little bit, even just thinking about it. What would I even write? I love to read, I love to consume things that make me turn it over a few times before I really know what I think, but I would just never know how to create something like that. There are so many thoughts in my brain, I wouldn’t know how or where to start._

_I could write about religion or war or love or humankind, but that’s all kind of been said and done, hasn’t it? What else could I even contribute? Nothing of worth._

_We’ve been studying postmodernism in English, and I’ve never encountered anything quite like it. That’s exactly how I want to write. It’s so raw and real; life doesn’t have a constructed climax or resolution, and our minds are never reliable. We live and we live and we live and then at some point we die. It’s all kind of straight-forward and sober, even though it doesn’t feel that way, day to day._

_Our end is simple but the means is just so complicated. I think that’s what postmodernism is about._

_We had to read Midnight in Dostoevsky, and no piece of literature has ever made me think more. The two characters just pour themselves into this silhouette of a man that they see every day, debating the man’s life with each other just to feel something, who find themselves changed by sitting through a class called Logic with a nonsensical, but profound professor._

_I want to pick a favorite line and write it down here but every line is so filled and simultaneously void of meaning that I can’t._

_I want to have thoughts like that story. I want my mind to work like that._

_Everything just gets so lost now, with the direct way we can share everything. How could anybody care about what I have to say? I’m the only one who cares about what I have to say. That’s why I’ve decided not to try the literary magazine, and just focus on sports. Being an athlete is easier than being a writer. Being an athlete is less terrifying than being a writer._

* * *

Morning comes gradually. Mickey finds himself waking long after the sunrise, vaguely stirred by the distant clink of dishes in the kitchen and muffled voices. He squints at the clock on his bedside table. 8:07. He struggles to remember what day of the week it is, and when he finally settles on Wednesday, his chest feels light. It’s his day off.

Though, when he hears a particular voice rise and then fall distantly from the kitchen, he feels the dull thud in his chest quicken.

_Ian will be here._

Suddenly, his actions from the night before come flooding back. He had briefly forgotten jerking off to the redhead, but now that he remembers, he doesn’t know how he’s going to drag himself out of bed to face him. He knows the minute he sees Ian he’ll be mute, because he’ll be caught in between wanting to apologize and very politely requesting Ian fuck the _shit_ out of him. And neither dialogue choice is really a viable option.

He lays in bed for about 40 more seconds, blowing a strand of hair out of his eyes and blinking ruefully at the ceiling before he finally pushes himself up with an exhale, rubbing the remaining bleariness from his eyes with the heel of his palm.

He ventures, boldly, into the living room in only a t-shirt and boxers. When he is greeted by the partially obscured sight of Ian standing in front of the stove, fucking _shirtless,_ maybe cooking something and definitely laughing with Mandy, who is leaning easily against the counter, he turns right the fuck back around. He’s about to surrender to his bedroom again when he hears his name.

“Mick! Mornin’!”

He wants to kill his sister.

It takes a heartbeat, but he finally turns back around with the best slightly bitchy resting face he can muster.

“Hey,” he mumbles back. “The fuck are you doin’ makin’ so much goddamn noise?”

“I made pancakes,” Ian calls to him, pan in one hand and spatula in the other, shirt slung over his shoulder.

“Great. Just what we need, Mary fuckin’ Poppins,” Mickey snips.

“Oh, come on, they’re good. I’m an expert,” Ian says with a cocky smile.

Mickey’s stomach suddenly feels very cavernous.

_Fucking treason._

Reluctantly, Mickey complies, treading heavily through the living room and into the kitchen.

Ian flips two pancakes onto a plate and hands it to Mickey with a smile. Mickey, however, seems unsure what is supposed to happen next, since the sight of Ian’s collarbones alone is making his head swim. He stares dumbly at the plate in his hands.

_What do I do with this again?_

“They seem to pass your inspection?” Ian asks, causing Mickey to look back up at his expectant (and stupid, Mickey concludes) face.

Mickey sniffs, and his mind suddenly seems to unfreeze.

_These are pancakes. I am supposed to eat them._

Mickey sets the plate on the kitchen table with a clatter and sits down. “Somethin’ fuckin’ wrong with your shirt, Gingersnap?”

“He was showing me his tattoo,” Mandy interjects. Mickey gives a falsely uninterested grunt as he pours syrup over the pancakes.

Mickey is, in actuality, probably more interested in Ian’s tattoo than Mandy is.

He takes a bite of the pancakes. They’re fucking delicious. Mickey hates them for it.

“Gin-ger-snap,” Ian repeats, drawing each syllable out. “Haven’t been called that in a while.”

“Yeah? That your grandpa’s nickname for you or some shit?” Mickey asks.

“Nah, my sugar daddy,” Ian answers matter-of-factly.

 _That_ throws Mickey for a loop. “Oh.”

“Ex-sugar daddy?” Ian continues, screwing up his face in thought and reaching for a half-full mug of coffee, leaning back against the counter. “I guess. Used to help pay my bills and shit.”

“Sounds like a sweet deal,” Mandy says. “Maybe I--”

“No,” Mickey interrupts her, pointedly. He takes another bite of his pancakes. Mandy gives him a face, and Mickey throws one right back.

“It was,” Ian continues. “If you can flush all your morals and pride down the toilet.”

“Done,” Mandy says, without thought. Mickey barks out a laugh, and Ian snorts.

“He used to give me dumb nicknames all the time. Just like you, Mickey,” Ian says, a slight lilt of teasing in his voice.

“ _Hey._ My nicknames aren’t dumb,” Mickey counters.

“The first thing you ever called me was Carrot Cake,” Ian points out.

“Which was fuckin’ clever! Fuck off,” Mickey waves him off with his fork. “You don’t understand complex wit.”

Ian rolls his eyes as Mickey enjoys another mouthful of pancakes. “Right. That’s the problem here.”

“Fuck you...shit.” Mickey swallows his pancakes with a sudden realization.

“What?” Mandy and Ian both ask at the same time.

“I don’t know your fuckin’ last name,” Mickey states.

Ian squints in thought, and then laughs. “I don’t know yours, either.”

“Milkovich,” Mickey offers, right before taking another bite.

“Gallagher,” Ian answers.

 _Ian Gallagher._ Mickey hates the way his mind clings to the syllables, rolling them over and over in his mind like a song.

“Great. Fuck you, Gallagher,” Mickey finally finishes through a mouthful of pancakes, with a small, self-satisfied smile.

Ian scoffs, turning back to his pan and transferring it to the sink, but Mickey thinks he can spot a thin smirk on Ian’s lips, too. He can’t help the way his eyes travel up and down Ian’s figure, and then snap away when Ian turns back around.

Mandy looks between the two of them for a second, and then sighs. “Fuck. I gotta get to work.”

_Fuck. Don’t leave me._

Mickey makes a small sound of acknowledgement, and Mandy drops her mug into the sink, leaning up to peck Ian lightly on the cheek and then rushing towards the door.

“Colin here?” Mickey calls after her.

“No, work!” Mandy calls back, halfway out the door, and Mickey swears she winks at him before it shuts.

There’s a tense silence then, in which Mickey busies himself with finishing the rest of his pancakes and Ian washes the dishes.

“So,” Ian finally starts, as Mickey brings his plate to the sink. “Milkovich.”

“Yeah,” Mickey confirms shortly, running water over the sticky plate as Ian dries the other dishes.

“That’s a dumb fuckin’ name,” Ian says without missing a beat.

Mickey grants him a surprised laugh. “It’s Ukrainian, you dick.”

“ _Ukrainian_ , huh? That’s kinda hot,” Ian teases, but Mickey’s heart skips a beat.

_Kinda hot. Kinda hot?_

“Still dumb, though,” Ian concludes, bringing Mickey back slightly closer to Earth.

“Yeah, well, maybe my Ukrainian ass thinks Gallagher’s a dumb name. What is that, fuckin’ Scottish?” Mickey counters.

Ian makes a sound of contempt in the back of his throat. “It’s _Irish_.”

“Right,” Mickey grins as he scrubs the plate in his hands with soap, “I should’ve known because of the fuckin’ flames sprouting from your head.” He reaches over with a soapy hand and ruffles his fingers through Ian’s hair, earning himself a slap and a glare.

“ _Hey,_ ” Ian protests, reaching forward to stick his fingers under the running water of the sink and flicking water against the side of Mickey’s face.

“You dick!” Mickey laughs out, responding with a flick of soapy water to Ian’s cheek, which Ian returns by twisting up the hand towel he had been using to dry the dishes and whipping Mickey playfully in the ass.

Mickey finds himself in a blur of soap and water and hand towels and laughter until Ian catches hold of Mickey’s shoulder and pushes him roughly up against the counter, partially caging him in with with one arm on the right side of Mickey’s head, hand pressed against the cabinets above, and the other pressing against his chest, holding him backwards against the linoleum. With an eyebrow raised and a crooked, knowing smirk, Ian is, in that moment, the sexiest and most infuriating thing Mickey has ever seen. Mickey’s heart is beating so hard he can feel it in his head, the anticipation overwhelming.

Ian’s eyes dart down to Mickey’s lips as his expression seems to become curious.

_Yes. Do it. Please._

It’s there again, the natural tug towards Ian, and Mickey finds himself shifting his weight slightly to his toes, preparing to surge up and just do it, just make the first move, just throw away every fucking trepidation. Because Ian, here, in front of him, is all-consuming; the heat of his body, the glint in his eyes, the touch of his hand, it all swims around Mickey in an intoxicating and pleasant way, and makes everything within Mickey shout back _YES!_ in affirmation.

The sound of their breathing falls into a mutual tempo as Ian’s hand trails down to grab, almost possessively, at Mickey’s waist, taking a step forward to line the length of his body up with Mickey's.

Just then, the sound of the front door creaking open causes them both to jump, pushing apart only slightly. They turn with utterly guilty expressions to watch Mandy walk through the living room, heading straight for the hallway leading to the bedrooms, hiding a smile with pursed lips.

“Sorry! Forgot my apron!” she calls out, hurrying to her room.

Ian stares dumbly down at his hands, which he had quickly removed from Mickey’s space upon Mandy’s return, and Mickey glares down at the floor for a few moments, before he looks back up into Ian’s face. When Mickey meets his eyes, they stare at each other for a second, taking in each other’s culpable expressions, and then, collectively, they burst into laughter.

They continue to laugh, possibly slightly crazed, as Mandy hustles back out through the living room and out of the door without a word.

Their laughter ebbs away, but their smiles remain in place, and Mickey finds himself gazing at Ian’s softened features fondly.

“So,” Ian says, taking a step back towards Mickey. In a normal situation, he would be too close for Mickey’s comfort. Mickey, however, is enraptured.

“So,” Mickey repeats back, softly.

“Guess we’ve both got a free day,” Ian muses.

“Hm,” Mickey responds absently. He’s too busy fighting the temptation to run an appreciative hand down Ian’s bicep.

“What do ya do for fun around here?” Ian asks, regrettably stepping away from Mickey and opting to grab his shirt, thrown onto the counter during their war of soap and water, and pull it over his head.

_And he still looks just as fucking good._

“What do we do for fun? Have you not noticed the Atlantic Ocean like...three fuckin’ miles that way?” He gestures vaguely to his left.

Ian rolls his eyes. “Not the _tourist_ stuff. What do _you_ do for fun? As a local? Can’t spend every fuckin’ minute at the beach. Gotta get boring.”

“Hm,” Mickey says again, thoughtfully this time. There is one place, Mickey knows, far away from the beach or the boardwalk, but it’s Mickey’s haven, his little corner of nothing where he can go and just breathe. But, honestly, the thought of bringing Ian there doesn’t bother him as much as Mickey might expect it to. “There is somethin’. It might not be that exciting, though.”

Ian shrugs. “Had enough exciting to tide me over for an eternity.”

Mickey taps his fingers thoughtfully against the counter behind him. “Alright. I’ll give ya the authentic Azurra experience.”

* * *

Showered, dressed, and sporting a backpack filled with the items they would need, Mickey leads the way into the shittier pits of Azurra, the places where the tourists don’t touch, only really meant for the low-income majority that found themselves born into the strange, concrete and salt water life the city offers. It’s a walk that would have made some middle-class raised poser sweat, but Ian barely even glances around. Entirely comfortable.

Mickey has no idea why, but it’s the most attractive thing he has ever witnessed.

He spends the walk pointing things out to Ian of even slight significance to his upbringing, his statements becoming increasingly more questionable and ridiculous.

“That road takes you to my high school.”

“That’s where I got these tattoos.”

“I shoplifted from that store for two years straight.”

“Almost got caught hotwiring a car over there. Ran from the cops for like half a mile. Didn’t even get the fuckin’ car.”

Ian laughs. “You went through that phase, too?”

Mickey stares over at him, incredulous. They’re only about a minute away from their destination.

“What, you stole cars?”

Ian nods, with a vaguely nostalgic smile. “‘S what my sister’s boyfriend did for a living. He taught us how, my older brother and I. We spent a few nights in a holding cell for it, eventually.”

Mickey shakes his head. “Bullshit,” he states, dismissively, waving Ian off.

“You want proof?” Ian asks, turning his head with a challenging glint in his eye.

“Proof how?” Mickey implores.

Ian gestures to the lot Mickey had just pointed out and stops short, letting Mickey walk a few more paces forward before he notices and stops, too.

“I’ll start one,” Ian says, referring to the few beaters that dot the parking lot. He doesn’t wait for an answer, turning off the sidewalk and walking through a strip of grass to the faded black asphalt, headed directly for a shitty beige Impala.

“Wait--Gallagher!” Mickey calls after him, groaning when Ian ignores him. He has no choice but to follow, dutifully, into the parking lot.

Mickey never expected _he_ would be the one to have reservations about committing a crime.

“I’m not gonna help you steal a fuckin’ car!” Mickey yells to Ian’s quickly retreating back.

Ian, again, demonstrates an incredible talent for selective hearing.

“The window’s down a little bit!” Ian calls to Mickey, gleefully. Mickey comes to a stop a ways behind Ian and watches as he grips the top of the window, pushing down, muscles bulging until the window succumbs to the force, sliding down and allowing Ian to unlock it from inside. Mickey releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding when no alarm goes off.

“You’re gonna get your fuckin’ fingerprints everywhere,” Mickey protests as Ian pulls the door open and slides inside.

“I’m not gonna steal the car, Mick,” Ian assures him, impatiently. “I’m just gonna _start_ the car.”

“ _Ian._ ”

Mickey realizes that this is the first time he’s said Ian’s first name. It feels good. Personal. Ian doesn’t seem to notice, though.

“What, tough guy? You afraid?” Ian teases, already working to pull loose the plastic cover on the steering column.

“No, I’m not fuckin’--I’ve probably stolen more cars than you have, Carrot Cake,” Mickey defends himself. The cover comes off with a satisfying _pop_ and Ian immediately gets to work on the wires. Mickey can see that he knows what he’s doing, shuffling through the wires only briefly before he has the correct groups of stripped wires in his fingers, touching them together with a grimace at the sparks near his wrists. After only a few seconds, the engine roars to life and Ian revs it with a satisfied smirk.

“Bullshit, huh?” Ian calls over the rumble of the engine.

“Alright, _alright_ , Red. You’re an authentic criminal. Turn this fuckin’ thing off.”

Ian rearranges the wires, separating the battery and ignition, and the car goes dead again. Ian pops out from the car, slamming the door solidly, and looking at Mickey with a raised eyebrow that makes Mickey’s heart skip a beat.

He doesn’t know what it is about Ian’s shifty background that makes Mickey like him more. Maybe it’s the common ground that it puts them on, the knowledge that Ian will never judge Mickey for his past. They aren’t really that different. Mickey can’t help thinking that, if Ian were just a result of some suburban hissyfit, he wouldn’t be wasting his time on him. Maybe that’s why he feels so _drawn_ to the other boy.

Whatever the reason, he finds Ian’s unabashed ability to steal a car incredibly hot. Though, he finds literally everything Ian does hot, criminal or not.

It’s debilitating.

“We goin’, then?” Mickey asks, refusing to look up from his feet at Ian, leaned against the car easily. Ian shrugs, pushing away from the Impala and gesturing for Mickey to lead on.

It’s only a minute more of amicable silence before they’re standing in front of the abandoned building, three stories high and whitewashed beyond recognition. Any remaining paint peels unceremoniously from the rough walls, curving easily into the doorway, where the door had been obliterated from its hinges years ago, if it had ever existed at all.

“ _God_ this place reminds me of Chicago,” Ian breathes out as Mickey leads them into the crumbling building, up unsteady concrete stairs.

“You miss it?” Mickey asks, tightening his grip on the backpack slung over his shoulder as they round their way into the second floor, crossing the expansive, open floor, littered with crumbling plaster and broken glass.

Ian sighs heavily. “Every fuckin’ day. Canaryville was really pretty in an ugly way, you know what I mean?”

Mickey knows what he means.

They don’t speak for the rest of the climb to the top floor, where Mickey drops his backpack below the broken window and unzips it, shuffling through and pulling out a can of beer.

“Shotgun?” he offers, pulling a switchblade from his pocket and piercing the aluminum, catching the spray with his mouth and gulping down as much as he can. Ian strides forward to wait next to him, reaching out and bringing the can to his mouth when Mickey finally offers it, finishing it in about four long swallows. Mickey watches the line of Ian’s throat as he tilts his head to accommodate the spray, and feels his heart hammer up to his sternum. He thinks he can feel himself blush as his eyes travel down to Ian’s collarbones, lingering on the dip beneath his throat, and then back up to his face, just as Ian finishes the beer and pulls the can away from his face, wiping a hand across his mouth with a grin.

Mickey wants to get his hands on him. No, Mickey _needs_ to. He briefly considers stepping forward and pulling Ian into an unprompted, rough kiss, because he feels like if he doesn’t touch Ian right now, he’ll die.

Instead, he turns back to his backpack, and braces himself for his proverbial death, grabbing two more beers from the bag.

_I’m a fucking pussy._

He tosses one to Ian and then drops heavily to the floor, back against the wall. Ian doesn’t hesitate in sitting beside him, keeping a small space between them that Mickey abhors. It’s sappy, but there is nothing Mickey wants to do more than shuffle closer and interlace his fingers with Ian’s, enjoying the warmth of the length of his arm pressed against Mickey’s own arm.

Mickey pops his beer open and, as always, ignores his inhibitions.

“Why’d you really leave Chicago?” Mickey asks, suddenly. Ian shifts beside him, and Mickey’s momentarily scared that he’s already pushed too hard, that Ian was going to leave and walk out of the building and Mickey would never see him again.

Instead, Ian just moves the tiniest bit closer to Mickey.

* * *

_November 20th, ‘15_

_Jaq finally kissed me._

_Not only did he kiss me, but we had sex. Really. I'm still shocked, too._

_It all happened at this blinding speed. One second, we were just friends, and the next, we’re lying in his bed smoking and talking about what to do next._

_Our other friends still won’t talk to him, and I think it might be permanent now. I wonder if there’s something more that I don’t know about his break up with Marce. Either way, after we fucked, Jaq told me he didn’t want me to be around them anymore. That he wants me to himself. It kind of made me sad, because they just stopped being weird with me and I really feel like I belong around them (except Marce--she's not around much). But, I couldn’t say no to Jaq. He’s got no one but me. His mom’s never home, he’s lost all his friends, his dad’s dead, all he’s got is me. So I guess it’s only fair if he’s all I’ve got, too. At least I have a family._

_It’s time for basketball tryouts, but whenever I talk about it, Jaq gets all weird and quiet. When the football season ended and I didn’t have any conversations with any scouts, it hurt, but I wasn’t surprised. I really think I have a shot at a scholarship if I play basketball. I’ve been first string since my sophomore year; I’m fucking good at the sport. Whenever I mention anything about college, Jaq gets short and kind of angry, and I’m wondering if he doesn’t want me to go. I would understand, it would be a big change, but he wouldn’t want me to compromise my future and my chance to get out just to stay behind with him in our hometown, right?_

* * *

 

“Relationship issues,” Ian answers, breezily, seemingly automatically.

“You keep sayin’ that,” Mickey points out. “What was so bad that you left?”

Ian swallows and brings the beer can in his hand up to his lips with a faraway look.

* * *

_November 29th, ‘15_

_I’m officially on the basketball team. I wish I could feel happier about it._

_When I got out of my second round of tryouts, Jaq was waiting for me outside of school. I could tell he was angry._

_He asked why I was doing basketball, and I told him, because I want to, because it will help me get into college. That made him even angrier. I know because when he gets angry he won’t stop making eye contact, with this horrible steely glare that I hate._

_We both yelled some things, and I confessed that I don’t know what he wants from me, because it’s true, I don’t. I have no fucking clue._

_He surprised me. He shoved me up against the wall, hard, so hard that I actually have bruises, and grabbed my shirt like he was going to pull back and punch me. Then he stopped and let me go and started crying and apologizing and I forgave him but said I wasn’t going to quit the basketball team and I could tell he still wasn’t happy but he didn’t say anything else._

_I never thought Jaq would actually try to hurt me. Sure, we come from shitty backgrounds, but I wouldn’t even consider laying a hand on him, or anyone else I was dating, no matter what._

_But he didn’t really hit me. He stopped himself, so it’s alright._

_I get the feeling that we’re a couple now, but I’m still seeing Ned. I don’t have any other way to pay my bills. I’m terrified to think what would happen if Jaq found out about him. I have no way of really knowing, but I’m getting nervous that Jaq is suspicious as to why I disappear some nights without a good excuse. I have another date with Ned tonight._

_If I really get serious with Jaq, I’ll cut it off. I’ll figure it out._

* * *

“Ian?”

The younger boy still hasn’t spoken, fixing his gaze on a point on the middle of the opposite wall. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, and then closes it again and takes a hasty drink of beer. Mickey mirrors him, and waits.

* * *

_December 17th, ‘15_

_I thought things were going well. I thought things were working out between us. I thought we were happy and figuring things out and moving forward._

_This is a nightmare._

_He shot Ned. He SHOT Ned._

_I feel like I’m going to vomit. It’s been 24 hours, Ned’s in the hospital, Jaq’s nowhere to be found._

_I don’t even know how the fuck he found out._

_But I sure found out some things._

_I asked Marce why Jaq broke up with her. It’s the first time we’ve spoken in over a month._

_She told me that he didn’t. She broke up with him. Because he_

_I can’t write it. I can’t think it. I can’t stomach it. I can’t believe I was all starry eyed with him the same night. I have to go. I have to leave. He’s going to kill me. I’m sure of it._

_I thought things were going well. I have to go. I can’t stay here._

_I’m going to go hug my little siblings and take some food and leave._

_How did this happen._

_I’m sorry. I’M SORRY._

* * *

“He was abusive,” Ian says, simply, finally, his voice cracking, blank stare fixed.

That’s all Mickey needs to hear. He shuffles over and slips his hand into Ian’s, chastely, and they just sit, finishing their beer and breathing.

“I’ve never said that out loud,” Ian admits after a very long silence.

“No?”

“No.”

Mickey squeezes his hand in response. There’s another pause.

“I told myself it was just the way things were with how we were raised.”

“‘S shit,” Mickey says.

“Yeah. It is.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ian doesn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitches up slightly.

“Tell me something about you,” Ian transitions.

“Hm?”

“I’m doin’ all this teen angst venting shit. Tell me something about you,” Ian spurs, leaning the smallest bit more towards Mickey.

“Huh.” Mickey’s nonplussed as to what to say. “Like what?”

“You got parents?” Ian asks.

“Sure, but they’re both dead,” Mickey answers, flatly.

“Ah.”

Mickey takes his time, chewing on his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Dad died in the clink. Never knew him. Mom’s ex boyfriend beat her to death.” He pauses to swallow down the lump that automatically forms when he thinks about his mother’s death. “Hopefully he’ll rot in the joint, too,” he says, softer.

“Hopefully,” Ian agrees. Mickey feels something in his chest; not happiness or calmness, but something soft, when Ian doesn’t try to console him or tell him how horrible that is, as if Mickey doesn’t already know. He just sits, warm and steady.

“We’re both pretty fucked up, huh?” Mickey laughs humorlessly. The contrast of the playful, flirty tone of the morning and their heavy, earnest conversation makes Mickey lightheaded.

Ian chuckles, a bitter smile on his face, and lightly squeezes Mickey’s hand. “World just kinda blows, in general, I think.” He finishes his beer and sets it lightly to the side.

Mickey couldn't have put it better himself. He's suddenly very aware of their intertwined fingers, the smooth skin of Ian's palm grounding. He never wants to move.

“You can stay longer, if you need to,” Mickey blurts out before he can think. Ian looks at him, questioning. “Longer than the week,” Mickey continues. “As long as you need.”

Ian smiles softly, and Mickey’s heart speeds up when their gazes lock.

“What about your brother?” Ian asks, smile fading and his eyebrows drawing together in concern. "He kinda seems to hate me."

Mickey waves a hand dismissively, breaking their stare and finishing his beer. “We’ll work something out. You can pay a share or some shit. He’ll be fine.”

Ian is silent for a long time, and Mickey starts to worry that maybe he overstepped some boundary, that maybe practically asking Ian to move in after approximately three days of knowing each other was finally too much.

“Why are you doing this?” Ian finally asks with a small voice.

Mickey freezes, and it takes a few moments to rip his gaze away from the ground and meet Ian’s eyes, already looking expectantly towards him.

He can’t stop himself this time. He doesn’t think.

He leans forward, placing his free hand to the back of Ian’s neck, pulling him across the distance and pressing a gentle, apprehensive kiss to Ian’s lips, savoring the way his lips seem to fit perfectly and the soft feeling of Ian’s hair beneath his fingertips, pulling back after only a few seconds to gaze back into Ian’s vulnerable eyes with a rapt nervousness.

Ian seems floored, blinking at Mickey in shock, before looking away, back to the spot on the other wall.

Finally, Ian huffs out a laugh. “I thought--I thought you were straight.”

Mickey laughs, too. Genuinely. It almost doesn’t even sound like him. “Me, too, Red.”

“But then…?” Ian asks, and Mickey thinks he can hear the smallest trace of shyness in his voice.

“But then…” Mickey motions vaguely at Ian. He doesn’t know what the right words are. _But then I saw you and experienced borderline love at first sight? But then I spent three days fantasizing about you fucking me? But then I suddenly couldn’t get you out of my brain no matter how hard I tried?_  “You,” he finishes, finally.

“Me,” Ian answers quietly.

“Yeah.”

There’s another long stretch of quiet, in which Ian tentatively rests his head against Mickey’s shoulder.

“So what does this mean?” Ian asks.

“I don’t fuckin’ know.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for a boyfriend,” Ian admits.

“That’s alright. I’m not, either.”

It’s true.

“Ok.”

“Alright.” Mickey smiles.

“So we’re friends for right now.”

Mickey nods, and then leans towards Ian more, shifting to rest his head against Ian’s, gently stroking his thumb back and forth on the expanse of the skin between Ian’s thumb and forefinger.

“Yeah. For right now.”

“So we’ll just...sit here for a while, then,” Ian suggests.

“Yeah. We’ll just sit here for a while,” Mickey agrees.

And they do.

Mickey’s never felt more at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the explanation of what happened with Jaq seems kinda rushed? The story's going to take place over the whole summer and I wanted to get to when I could start writing journal entries about Ian as a runaway instead of the mundane high school shit. I'm literally just lazy.


	7. Chapter 7

_ December 19th, ‘15 _

_ It’s very late at night. I’m in a park. _

_ It’s cold but the shelter is the first place they’ll look.  _

* * *

Mickey isn’t sure at what point within the past three days he had become so soft and sweet and gentle. He isn’t sure when he made the transition from distant and vaguely self-concerned to however it is he feels right now, silently soaking in the boy next to him.

He can’t tell if he likes the feeling or hates it. Either way, it scares him out of his fucking mind.

The morning air is wet and almost a little bit cold as they sit quietly, side-by-side, engrossed in their own thoughts.

Mickey can’t stop thinking about what had just happened. The feeling of his lips on Ian’s, the smell of his skin, the smile in his eyes.

_ I’m not ready for a boyfriend.  _

Mickey had really meant what he said; he isn’t ready for a boyfriend, either. Not a go-on-dates, hold-hands-on-the-street, kiss-in-public kind of boyfriend. But Mickey can’t help but worry that he wants more than Ian does. That he gave Ian the wrong impression. Again.

He wants to kiss Ian until he’s breathless and laugh at his jokes and eat his pancakes and hear about his crazy life in Chicago and maybe even fucking share a bed with him; he just wants to do it in private. For now. But there’s suddenly a knot in Mickey’s stomach, wondering if he had just been very gently friendzoned, and wondering if he’ll get to do none of those things in the way that he’d like to.

The sound of a few distant gunshots drags Mickey back to reality.

“Oh, fuck,” Mickey says, remembering the other contents of his backpack. He leans over, rifles through, and produces a small pistol. Ian starts.

“Jesus!” he exclaims. “You bring me up here to blow my brains apart?”

Mickey stares blankly at Ian, glances at the gun in his hand, and then looks back at Ian before remembering that, to some people, guns are a big deal.

“Oh.” Mickey laughs. “What, you never seen one, tough guy?”

Ian rolls his eyes. “I grew up in one of the worst neighborhoods in Chicago. I’ve been threatened with more guns than you’ve shot. I was just surprised.”

Mickey assumes this is a hyperbole, but something in the back of his mind believes every word. 

“This is what I do when I come over here,” Mickey tells him, reaching into the backpack to pull out a cartridge.

“Kill...people?” Ian deduces uneasily.

“No, asshole,” Mickey negates, rolling his eyes. He loads the gun and cocks it. “Throw your can in the air.” Ian hesitates, then stands, taking his can with him, and tosses it forward. Mickey takes aim, shoots, and misses. Ian laughs, but the sound of the gunshot is reassuring, despite his poor aim. It always has been. Just a steady, unfailing bang. The power is grounding.

“Your turn,” Mickey says, offering the handle to the younger boy. Ian cocks an eyebrow, and then shrugs and takes the pistol. He spreads his feet in what seems like a perfect stance and raises his arms like he knows exactly what to do.

_ Oh.  _

Mickey tosses the can. Ian hits it, dead-on.

Mickey, in a rare instance, is speechless. He stares at Ian, mouth agape.

Ian slips out of his stance and smiles bashfully at Mickey, with a face that definitely does not match what he just displayed.

“I was in my JROTC troop in high school. They don’t really fuck around with that stuff.”

“I can tell,” Mickey says, mentally shaking himself out of his his stupor. He sniffs. “JROTC, huh? Like, the army and shit?”

There’s a flicker of something, something unreadable but vaguely reminiscent of sadness, in Ian’s eyes then. 

“I was lieutenant colonel when I quit. I can kill a man with my bare hands,” Ian says with a smile, but Mickey senses he’s only half-joking.

“I’ll remember that.” Mickey bends down to pick up the third can, showing it to Ian and waiting for him to cock the gun and reassume his stance.

Mickey throws it. Ian does not miss.

“Jesus, Gallagher,” Mickey chuckles out. “If you’re so fuckin’ good at this, why’d you quit?”

“I wanted to go to West Point, but figured out I wasn’t smart enough. Kinda pointless after that.”

“Who the hell put  _ that  _ in your head?” Mickey asks, almost offended that Ian would think he couldn’t do something,  _ definitely  _ offended that Ian thinks he isn’t smart. 

Ian shrugs, but he crosses his arms and his mouth forms a hard line that says he’s done talking about it. Mickey isn’t one to argue with that.

“So what else you got up your sleeve, Annie Oakley? You just good at everything, or what? Where the fuck are your flaws?” Mickey spits out.

Ian smiles shyly. “I  _ suck  _ at video games,” he says unapologetically.

“Good. At least there’s one thing I can whoop your ass at.” 

They fall quiet, both grinning like idiots, and Mickey wonders if maybe Ian  _ does  _ want the same things, from the way he’s looking at him. But who the fuck knows. Mickey doesn’t know anything anymore. He reaches down and pops open another beer.

* * *

Mickey’s head is buzzing. He’s not drunk, not even close, but he did finish off 4 and a half cans of a six pack, and his head is buzzing the slightest bit. Ian stopped after his single beer, plus the half (ok, maybe one third) he shared with Mickey. Point being, Mickey is feeling the alcohol, and Ian isn’t.

They’re walking back to the house. Ian has the backpack slung over his shoulder and he seems to be glancing at Mickey more than usual, like he can sense Mickey’s buzzed state.

“Hey,” Ian starts.   
“Hey,” Mickey says back, with a smile larger than he would have warranted sober.

Ian laughs and looks at him for a second. “That wasn’t the end of my sentence.”

Mickey shrugs.

“You wanna come hang at the club for a bit tonight? I get a half hour break at one.” Their shoulders bump and Mickey smiles like a teenage girl. Something in his brain tells him to calm the fuck down, but then something else is yelling obnoxiously, reminding him that they  _ kissed  _ and that Mickey is happy. 

_ I have never been a sloppy, smiley drunk. I’m not even really drunk.  _

That’s the part of him that’s still sober talking.

_ Ian smells  _ insanely  _ good.  _

That’s the part of him that’s just the smallest bit buzzed. Just the smallest bit. Really.

“Mick?”

He realizes that he’s spent too long feeling like a smitten kid and has forgotten to answer Ian’s original question.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, sure. Why not? Got nothin’ better to do with my day off.” He tries very hard to sound like he does not actually want to go. He’s not sure if he succeeds or not.

They turn onto Mickey’s street, and it’s not long before they’re stepping through the front door and affronted with the sight of Mickey’s older brother, sprawled out on the couch and glaring daggers in their direction.

“Hey,” Mickey greets. Colin only grunts and turns his attention back to the television. Something inside Mickey tightens at his brother’s cold disposition, but he swallows it down. “You hungry?” he asks Ian, who stands behind him with clenched fists. When Ian shrugs, Mickey swallows. “ _ I’m  _ hungry,” he says decidedly. He makes a point of refusing to acknowledge the elephant in the room. Maybe if he acts normal about it, he thinks, everyone else will just stop acting so fucking weird.

As Mickey searches the fridge for something to make, his heart pounds at the sound of Colin’s voice.

“So, Ian,” his brother starts. “You suckin’ my brother’s dick to stay here, or what?”

A sudden, undeniable flash of anger surges behind Mickey’s eyes, and then he’s abandoning the refrigerator to watch the encounter, to be a buffer between the younger boy and Colin.

“ _ Hey, _ ” Mickey warns, taking a step further back into the living room.

“‘S alright, Mickey,” Ian assures him, holding up a hand.

“What, you his fuckin’ bodyguard now?” Colin barks out a laugh. Mickey clenches his fist and swallows, silently challenging his brother to test that question.

“I’m not sleeping with him,” Ian says solidly, capturing the attention of the siblings. His face is steady, unafraid. “We’re only friends.”

Mickey doesn’t let Ian’s words mean anything. He doesn’t. Instead, he decides to rip off the band-aid and tell Colin the news that might cause him to throttle them both.

“Ian’s stayin’ here for a while,” Mickey says suddenly. “He’s gonna help pay bills and shit.”

Colin blinks, as his head slowly turns to face Mickey. He sits up.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Colin asks, low and dangerous.

But Mickey’s irritation at his brother’s hostility is more intense than his fear of physical punishment, and his desire for Ian to stick around for a while overwhelms it all. 

“He’s moving in for a bit,” Mickey repeats. 

Ian opens his mouth to say something, shuts it, and then opens it again, making a small sound in the back of his throat.

“If it’s a problem--” Ian starts, but he’s abruptly interrupted.

“If it’s a problem. If it’s a  _ fuckin’  _ problem,” Colin scoffs. He turns his attention back to Mickey. “Can we have a word? In the other room?”

Mickey nods, his determined expression unchanging. With one more glance at Ian, Mickey wills his head to stop buzzing like that (at this point he can’t tell if it’s from the alcohol, the tension, or a little bit of both) and he follows his brother into the master bedroom. 

“What the fuck?” Colin hisses as soon as the door closes.

“Where the fuck is he gonna go, Colin? Huh? Back on the street?” Mickey demands. “Where the fuck will he go?”

“ _ That’s not our fucking problem, _ ” Colin insists, emphasizing every word. 

“Nothing’s ever our problem!” Mickey shoots back. “So fuckin’ what if I wanna make something my problem?”

Colin stares at him, arms outstretched, palms facing forward, his face utterly incredulous. Then, he raises a hand to his face and rubs at it tiredly. “Mickey,” he begins, and then stops and takes a breath. “Mick,” he tries again, his voice almost becoming gentle. “Why are you doin’ this? Really? I know it’s not outta the kindness of your heart.”

Mickey meets his brother’s eyes then, and there’s something there, some parental concern that Mickey only sees when something is seriously wrong, and Mickey realizes that his brother’s figured it out, too. He really is just that transparent.

Mickey stands in shocked silence for a few unstable seconds.

“It’s what you think,” Mickey finally confirms, softly. He stares at the ground, willing it to open and swallow him whole. He had wanted to come out to Mandy, but Colin? He hadn’t even entertained the thought yet. 

“Alright,” Colin finally says. Mickey chances a glance up, and is surprised to find that his brother doesn’t look horrified or angry, just kind of dazed.

“Alright?” Mickey repeats dumbly.

“It’s alright. It’s fine. Who you like is your business. Just because I don’t get it don’t mean I’m gonna make a big fuckin’ deal. And it’s not like I had no clue.”

Mickey blinks, and he almost thinks he feels tears. Fucking tears.

_ No, I am not going to fucking cry. That would be gay as hell. _

“Just…” Colin starts rubbing a hand across his mouth. Mickey catches his eye, and Colin immediately looks to the ground.

“What?” Mickey barks.

Colin sighs. “Just be careful, Mick,” he says simply.

Mickey is quiet for a few heartbeats, staring at his brother. “The fuck is  _ that  _ supposed to mean?” he finally asks.

“That kid...I don’t trust him. We don’t know shit about him.”

“I know plenty about him,” Mickey defends.

“No,” Colin refutes calmly. “You know what he’s  _ told  _ you. Who the fuck knows if any of it’s true?”

Mickey fixes his brother with a hard stare that indicates his offense on Ian’s behalf, but a part of him dwells on Colin’s words. What the fuck  _ does  _ he know about Ian? Nothing but what Ian’s said; his past is still so cloudy and mysterious, and there isn’t a soul for miles that could say otherwise. Ian could say whatever the fuck he wants.

“I just don’t want him to rip your heart out and piss on it, Mick,” Colin concludes.

“I can take care of myself,” Mickey scoffs, crossing his arms and averting his eyes to the far wall.

“I just know how you get.”

Mickey’s eyes snap back to his brother. “And how the fuck is that?”

Colin sucks his teeth and mirrors his brother, crossing his arms and planting his feet. “Remember when you were ten and you and Mandy won a goldfish at the Outlet, and it died after only three days and then you were torn up over it for weeks?”

Mickey blinks. He does remember that. That fish was fucking special. He loved that fish like a son. Not enough to keep it alive for more than three days, apparently, but he’s always blamed the previous caretaker’s incompetence for that minor detail. 

“So?”

“So, that kid’s the fish, Mick. You stay all distant, but when you get attached, you get  _ attached _ , like all in, 100%, ride or die attached.” Colin looks at him, contemplating his reaction. Mickey just looks away and rolls his eyes, but there’s something in the center of his chest that knows Colin is right. Mickey wants to tell him that he’s scared, that he’s never felt anything like this before and that he’s fucking terrified because Colin is right.

“When the fuck’d you get all fuckin’ soppy? We gonna hug it out next?” he says instead.

Colin snorts. “Just be careful, dickhead.” With that, his brother shoulders past him and leaves the room, heading directly back to Ian. He begins to speak before Mickey can fully follow him.

“Fine,” Colin starts, simply. “But you pay the same share as the rest of us. This ain’t a halfway house.” Mickey catches up, leaning against the doorframe and watching the scene. Ian doesn’t cower at his brother; that’s something new. Everyone’s always so shaky, and nervous, like they think Colin will snap their neck at any second. But Ian just looks at him, straight, tall, simple. Just like he looks at Mickey, and Mandy. Not afraid. Normal. Steady.

Mickey wishes he would cower and prove himself to be just like everybody else.

“Won’t be a problem,” Ian affirms. “Thank you for this.”

* * *

_ December 21st, ‘15 _

_ I have an idea to make sure he never finds me I just have to do a few things to make sure it happens right. _

* * *

Mickey  _ hates  _ clubs. The music is too fucking loud, the clientele is too fucking prissy, the booze is too fucking pretentious; he’s always hated them. He doesn’t see the goddamn point of coming to a place just to blow money and suck face in the middle of a hot, crowded dance floor.

But now, as he’s sitting at the bar, watching Ian slink around the place and do his job, he gets it. The pounding music, the self-involved crowd, they all create this bubble of safety and apathy that could let a person be whoever the fuck they want to be. And right now, Mickey wants to be the guy currently receiving a particularly enthusiastic lap dance from Ian. 

The man has to be in his thirties or forties, with salt and pepper hair and a more than decent face. He isn’t as old and overstuffed as Ian’s other clients for the night, and Mickey resents him and his stupid dimpled businessman face. Why does he have to pay for it with a face like that? He could just walk into the back room and ask for volunteers. Why does he need to have Ian? Mickey watches with a heat boiling behind his eyes as the man whispers something into Ian’s ear and Ian smiles wickedly back at him.

Mickey drains his beer and sets it heavily on the counter, startling the man next to him, who glances at Mickey and follows his line of sight to Ian.

“That your boyfriend?” the man asks with a bored, strained voice.

Mickey sniffs in irritation. “Nah.”

“Why do you look like you’re gonna kill the guy he’s dancing with, then?”

Mickey swallows. It’s a good fucking question. Why is he acting so possessive? They’re only friends. They’re  _ only _ friends.  _ They’re only friends.  _

The man sighs. “It was probably a bad idea to fall for a stripper, man. You really wanna spend your whole night ogling him and feeling shitty?”

Mickey turns to look at the guy for the first time; he’s got long, presumably soft hair and a well-trimmed goatee, with nice brown eyes that look as if they scrutinize everything they see. He’s young, maybe only a little bit older than Mickey.

He looks like a pretentious prick.

“Do I look like some lovesick fag to you? Fuck off.” He turns back to the bar and waves his glass at the bar tender. 

“You look like someone who could use a distraction,” the guy purrs. Mickey drains about half of his beer in response. 

“No better distraction than drinking myself dead, huh?” Mickey half-jokes with a smile. 

“Are you trying to let me down easy or can you really not tell that I’m hitting on you?” the guy suddenly asks, propping an elbow on the bar and leaning his head on his hand.

Mickey opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by the sound of his name being called. He spins to see Ian, in all his black-mesh-tank-top-shiny-black-spandex glory, sporting a big smile and eyeliner.

Mickey has never found anyone more attractive in his life. He chances a glance at the guy trying to score with him and decides that he, in comparison, is a fucking troll.

“Hey,” Ian greets, leaning against the bar beside Mickey, and Mickey feels lightheaded. “Who’s this?” 

“Huh?” Mickey asks. Who? The only person that exists is Ian.

Ian gestures to the guy to Mickey’s left. Mickey stares blankly at the guy in response.

“Martin,” he finally says, holding out a hand to shake Ian’s.

“Curtis,” Ian responds, chancing an odd look at Mickey, who is once again jarred by the use of his fake name.

“How’s it goin’ tonight?” Martin asks. Ian leans slightly closer to Mickey at the question. Or maybe he imagined that.

“Good. The old dudes give great tips if I let them grab me a little bit. I think I’ve got a regular.” Ian nods his head towards the man he had just been grinding on, and Mickey’s throat burns.

“That Walmart brand Tom Cruise lookin’ motherfucker?” Mickey questions.

Ian laughs. “Yeah, that’s the one. He’s paid for four dances. Two last night, two tonight.”

“Wouldn’t that get a little boring?” the guy, Martin, drawls.

_ He’s still here? _

“Speaking from experience,” Mickey says against the lip of his glass, “it wouldn’t.”

Mickey can’t decide what is more satisfying: the look of shock on Martin’s face, or the amused snicker from Ian.

“Speaking of…” Mickey’s entire body tenses against his drink as Ian’s voice takes on that smoky edge that he’s learned to dread. Ian moves quickly, spinning Mickey’s stool and pushing in between Mickey’s spread legs, placing a hand on either side of Mickey, gripping the edge of the bar. “Twenty-five bucks gets you a dance.” There’s a sparkle in Ian’s eyes that makes Mickey’s heart hammer in his throat.

He opens his mouth to say something, or maybe he contemplates leaning up to close the distance between their lips, or maybe he has to vomit, or maybe he needs to smoke.

He needs to smoke.

“I need to smoke,” he says weakly, pushing Ian away slightly, leaving the boy with an amused smirk on his stupid face. 

Outside the club, the concentrated wind of the city blows lightly, making the flame of Mickey’s lighter dance ever so slightly.

He lights the cigarette and inhales. The world makes a bit more sense.

The door opens and shuts, and Mickey knows who it is before he turns to look. 

“You can thank me now or later,” Ian starts, and Mickey turns to him in surprise, raising his eyebrows.

“Thank you for what?” he asks around his cigarette. Ian plucks it from Mickey’s lips, despite Mickey’s cry of protest, and takes a drag.

“For makin’ that greasy asshole lose interest. Pretty sure he’s got the clap.” Ian hands the cigarette back with an easy smile, smoke still curling out of his lips. It all looks like it’s out of a movie; gorgeous guy in showy clothes, smoke billowing around his face, neon lights casting a surrealist glow. Mickey wonders how  _ he  _ looks. Probably not half as good. He puffs on the cigarette and looks away, across the street.

“Thanks,” he mutters, disdainfully.

Ian leans back against the brick of the club. “You’re actin’ kinda weird.”

“Yeah, well…” Mickey pauses, swallows. “You’re confusing as hell.”

Ian blinks at him, one, two, three times. He’s beautiful. Mickey’s pissed.

“Huh?” Ian finally produces.

Mickey scoffs out a breath. “You...listen, man, you know how I feel. You gotta…” Mickey trails off, searching for the right words. He curses whatever gods he can think of for giving him the unfailing ability to suck at expressing his emotions. “You know how I feel,” he starts again, and notices that Ian’s expression has changed from his work persona to one of open curiosity and confusion. “And then you say you wanna be friends. Which was confusing as hell, but I was ready to deal with it. And then you gotta offer me fuckin’...lap dances? Flirt with me like it’s nothin’? I don’t know what you want, man. You’re just confusing.” It feels good to say it, but he dreads Ian’s response.

“I told you I don’t want a boyfriend, Mick,” Ian says, eyes shifting to the ground.

“And I told you I don’t either. But what about after that? We just gonna hang in this fuckin’ limbo forever?”

Ian sighs, heavy. “I really don’t fuckin’ know, Mickey. We just met.”

Mickey’s brain stutters. Of course he knows Ian is right, but somehow hearing it out loud, the confirmation that the intensity of his feelings really is ridiculous, it startles him. 

“I can’t…” it comes out weaker than he intends it to, and he hates himself for it. “You...you’re…”

His fucking words aren’t working anymore. He wants to say that he feels like he’s known Ian for his whole life and that everything suddenly makes sense, everything just kind of clicks. His world shifted the slightest bit and now he gets it. He’s still scared but he  _ gets  _ it.

“Mickey,” Ian says, pulling Mickey’s attention back to him. “I don’t want to be just friends forever.”

The words are like a tidal wave of relief. Mickey can feel himself exhale a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“You don’t?”

“No,” Ian shakes his head. “I like you, too, but my last boyfriend...it just happened so quickly. We were just friends, and then suddenly we were in this serious relationship. Shit turned bad, ya know?”

Mickey nods. He knows.

“I just want this to happen right,” Ian finishes.

Neither of them say anything else. There isn’t much more to say.

Mickey’s left playing the waiting game, wanting so badly to just turn around and  _ kiss  _ him, say  _ fuck your old boyfriend, I’m not him.  _ Maybe he should. But Ian wants to take it slow, so that’s what they’ll do. Mickey can’t demand here and now. He can’t demand fast or hard or hot or heavy. He takes one last drag of the cigarette and holds his breath for longer than usual. 

“If you want to take this slow,” Mickey says with the smoke that releases from his lips. He turns fully to look at Ian, tossing his cigarette to the ground. “Then you can’t be talkin’ to me the way you were in there. I think you think I’ve got more self-control than I really have.”

Ian stares at him, processing his words, and the air is suffocating, their silent exchange intense and charged with restraint.

“Noted,” Ian says lowly. Mickey’s not sure how long they look at each other, but he’s just about to either lose his mind or disregard everything they just said and kiss Ian into the wall when the door bangs open and Martin walks out, eyes scanning down the street and falling to Mickey.

“Left me to hang with the cockslut, huh?” Martin asks with a grin as he walks towards Mickey, and an overwhelming surge of rage rips through his body, combining with the already pooling twist of arousal in his gut and creating a cocktail of bad fucking ideas. 

He doesn’t consider the consequences before he throws a (probably unnecessary) punch that connects squarely with Martin’s jaw.

“Jesus!” someone calls out as Martin falls to the ground.

Martin groans, clutching his face and staggering up. “What the fuck!” 

A crowd has quickly formed, and Mickey catches sight of somebody on their phone, concerned face boring directly into Mickey.

“ _ Shit,  _ Mick, they’re gonna call the cops,” Ian calls behind him.

Martin is bleeding, but Mickey isn’t afraid of any physical rebuttal; the guy’s a bonafide pussy. 

Mickey is vaguely aware of the nervous chattering around them as he strides forward and grabs a fistful of Martin’s shirt. 

“You’re an obnoxious prick who doesn’t know shit about shit. So go home and contemplate the meaning of the phrase, ‘Mind your own fucking business.’ Can you do that?” Mickey growls. Martin nods, and Mickey shoves him back, watching him turn and rush away. 

“Mickey!” Ian hisses, but he’s cut off by a very large man, who stomps his way directly to Mickey and, none too kindly, requests he leave the club’s perimeter. The sting in his knuckles tells him not to argue. 

* * *

_ December 22nd, ‘15 _

_ I’m sitting in a recruiting station waiting for the bus to take me to boot camp. I’m really joining the Army. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering how attached Mickey got to Ian by like s4/s5 and on i really think that if Terry had never been in the picture he would have just been this passionate kid that falls in love too easy. His behavior in the first few seasons was a direct product of his abuse, ya know? I kind of like writing Mickey void of Terry's bullshit.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is so sickeningly sweet i Hate myself

_ December 25th ‘15 _

_ I haven’t written in a few days because adjusting to boot camp has been exhausting. We always have somewhere to be and something to do. Our entire life is supposed to be regimented, controlled, absorbed by the Army. I guess it’s what I signed up for, so I guess I’ll get used to it, but it doesn’t give me much time to write. I told myself that I was going to find a way to write on Christmas, even if I got no sleep. We didn’t do shit for Christmas; we had canned turkey and gravy and missed our families more than usual. God, I miss my family. _

_ Everyone here’s tough, and I know I have a face that might suggest otherwise, but I’m tough, too. South Side tough. Half these recruits are whiny suburban nationalists, anyway. I’m not scared of them.  _

_ I am slightly scared of my commanding officer, though. Three days in and he’s already calling me Pretty Boy as an insult. Some of the recruits started, too, but stopped as soon as my fist connected with their face. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t fuck around. _

_ I miss my family. I miss them more than words can say. I think about them every day. Everything is just so regimented here: we wake up at 5 in the morning, we shower, we dress, we eat, we train, we eat, we train, we shower, we clean, we eat, we sleep, we do it again. I miss the craziness that my family always brought. No one day was the same. It was all a shifting cacophony. Here, it’s just one solid block of beige. Maybe the discipline will be good. It will teach some stability. God knows I don’t know a thing about that. _

* * *

Mickey hasn’t moved from his spot at the kitchen table for hours.

After his temporary lapse in impulse control at the club, he had deftly returned home, made himself a shitty cup of Lipton tea, and sat down to ponder his regrets and stare at the bruises blooming on his knuckles.

Now, his tea is cold and practically untouched, and the door swings open, a tall figure escaping the night. As soon as their eyes meet, Ian’s speaking.

“What the fuck was  _ that _ , Mickey?” Ian asks, and Mickey can’t tell if he sounds exasperated or amused. He’s pulled his cargo shorts over the spandex, and Iggy’s sweatshirt hangs loosely on his shoulders, the mesh tank top still snuggly stretched across his tank top. He looks devastating.

Mickey shrugs. “He was on my last nerve.” Mickey knows that’s not why, and he fears Ian does, too. He’s fucking  _ frustrated _ , and dear, poor Marvin or Magnus or Mack or whatever the fuck had taken the brunt of it. That punch had been filled with his confusion, his fear, even his fucking sexual frustration.

“You don’t need to defend my honor, you know,” Ian continues, taking a few steps forward, closer to the kitchen, ignoring Mickey’s deflection. “South Side, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, tough guy,” Mickey waves him off, looking down at his useless tea. When Ian continues to stare at him, Mickey sighs. “His fuckin’ ferret lookin’ ass was gettin’ too fuckin’ pushy, is all. Couldn’t really take a hint.”

Ian stares for a little longer, and it takes everything in Mickey’s countenance not to squirm. Or worse yet, admit that, yes, the use of ‘cockslut’ had sent him over the edge.

_ Or even worse, I could ask Ian to bend me over this table and-- _

No.

_ I need to chill the fuck out.  _

Thankfully, Ian seems to release the subject, closing the rest of the distance and dropping into the table next to Mickey. He gives a small smile that causes Mickey’s heart to speed up the tiniest bit, and he kicks Mickey’s foot lightly with his own. “Thanks.”

Mickey takes a bashful sip of his tea and has to steel himself against flinching at the freezing temperature. 

_ Real smooth. _

“Tug said I can start dancing on a stage next week. Guess I’m not half bad, huh?” Ian says conversationally. 

Mickey snorts at that.  _ Not half bad. _ He chooses to say nothing in fear of looking like a hypocrite, considering his don’t-flirt-with-me tantrum that occurred only two hours earlier.

“It’ll be nice to get off the floor. Get a break from lap dances. That guy asked for a third before he left. Gave me a huge tip, too. Don’t usually get tips for lap dances.” Ian stares down at his lap, folding his hands.

Mickey’s eyebrows draw together. “That’s kinda weird as hell, man. Ain’t it?”

Ian inhales sharply, mouth twitching in thought, then he seems to relax. “I dunno, man. Every bar’s got regulars, right? Whores do, too. I did. This probably isn’t any different.” 

Mickey hums, processing. “Yeah, well, you let me know if he gets weird.”

Ian breathes out a laugh. “I can take care of my--”

“Ian.”

Ian’s eyes snap up at the firm admission. Mickey’s eyes, dead-set and filled with concern, must say everything Mickey neglects to say.

“Yeah,” Ian agrees quietly. “Yeah, alright.” They look at each other for a while, and Mickey wonders why Ian seems so affected by Mickey’s concern for his well-being, why he seems even uncomfortable that Mickey would be so set on keeping him safe. Hasn’t anybody ever wanted to keep Ian safe before?

Mickey almost wants to ask. He doesn’t.

“He’s probably just a family man trying to get as much jerk material as he can before he goes back home,” Ian says dismissively, probably in an attempt to lighten the mood. 

_ And he’s got a thing for underage redheads? _

That’s what Mickey’s about to say, but something about the ‘underage’ stops him, and he realizes that he doesn’t actually know how old Ian is. He’s obviously under 18, or he would have disputed all of the times that Mickey has implied that he isn’t. 

In fact, there are a lot of simple things that Mickey doesn’t know about Ian. How the fuck do  _ normal  _ people get to know someone they’re attracted to?

A date. Right. 

_ Fuck. _

Mickey’s never been on a date in his life, unless you count the time when he was 14 and went to the movies with a girl just to sit in the back and get a less than stellar blowjob. But something about it seems right; it seems like the right way to transition from this space they're hanging in now to something more.

“Hey, you wanna go on a date with me?” Mickey finds himself blurting out. It probably could have been done with more tact, but if there’s something Mickey certainly is not, it’s graceful.

Ian’s resulting smile is something new, but good, very, very good, so good that it’s the only thing Mickey wants to see for the rest of his life.  _ God,  _ he can die happy.

“What?” Ian asks softly, smile not leaving his face.

“Like, a date. Like, get food and fucking...talk about ourselves and movies and music and shit. Isn’t that what people do when they’re taking shit slow?”

Ian seems to stare at him for a long time, unanswering, and Mickey swears he starts to sweat under the other boy’s gaze. 

“What?” Mickey asks, maybe a little too sharply, after a few long moments. 

Ian giggles. Mickey hates him with a burning passion in that moment; mostly because his laugh makes Mickey’s stomach flip a few times.

“No one’s ever asked me on a date, before,” Ian finally confesses with a sweet smile. Mickey can’t help but smile back. He finds it hard to believe that Ian, the most attractive and generally wonderful human being Mickey has ever had the fortune of becoming acquainted with, has never even been asked on a date. But something in the sincerity in Ian’s eyes and the joy tilting the corners of his mouth tells Mickey he’s telling the truth.

“I’ve never asked anyone on one,” Mickey answers, honestly. It’s only fair.

Ian puffs out a breath, unclasping his fingers and tapping them on the tabletop. “Fuck. Fine, yes, I’ll go on a date with you.”

Mickey splits into a grin, and Ian follows soon after. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ian looks away, stifling his smile. “Big fuckin’ softie,” he adds.

Mickey shoves Ian’s leg with his foot, and Ian kicks him back, laughing.

“Shut your gay asses up _ , _ ” Mandy calls from across the house. “It’s three in the goddamn morning!” 

That only spurs them to laugh harder.

Mickey falls asleep smiling.

* * *

The next day passes quickly, without significance. Mickey thinks a lot, but he’s always thinking; only this time, it’s lighter.

He’s planning a fucking date.

He doesn’t know why this is so important to him, that it goes well and that he impresses Ian, but it is.  

He surprises himself with his reserve of sappy and over the top ideas, all of which he immediately rejects. Fancy dinner? Pay with what money? Movie? No opportunity to talk. Carnival? Is that lame? A hike? Azurra isn’t really known for its scenic trails. Sunset picnic? Mickey almost vomits at the sentiment. 

He realizes gradually that he may just suck at romance.

* * *

He’s almost glad that he doesn’t see Ian until he comes home after his shift.

They talk and laugh easily at the kitchen table, Ian recounting the night to him. There had been a bachelor party, the couple planning on marrying on the beach. Ian was hired to treat one of the groom-to-be’s to his last hurrah; an extra special, doubly expensive dance in the back room. 

“He tried to blow me!” Ian says through a few snorts. Mickey laughs with him. “I asked him, ‘Are you guys open?’ He tells me, ‘No, our wedding’s only for a greencard.’ His fuckin’ fiancé is straight!” 

“Did you--did you fuckin’ turn down a blowjob?” Mickey chokes out. 

“Of course I fuckin’ did! An extra twenty-five bucks does not mean I’m ready to get it up for some over-the-hill skinhead. We’d have been there for hours.”

“That bad?” Mickey inquires, with an easy smile.

“He had a wart the size of a marble on his nose. I think it had eyes.” Ian scrunches his nose at the memory, and sips the hot chocolate that Mickey  _ definitely _ did not make with the hopes that Ian would come home to drink it.

Mickey realizes he’s staring, with a dumb smile glued to his face, when Ian smiles sheepishly into his mug and asks, “What?” Mickey blinks a few times, and then averts his gaze.

“Nothin’,” Mickey says, his voice smaller than he meant it to be. He knows what he’s thinking. He’s stunned, just utterly baffled, at how quickly he and Ian have become comfortable with each other. He feels like he could tell Ian anything with the utmost confidence, could whisper everything he’s been too scared to say his whole life and feel light like he’s never felt before.

It’s terrifying. Ian terrifies him.

_ Where have you been all my life? _

That’s what he wants to say. He aches to say it. He doesn’t.

“When do you get a day off?” he asks instead.

* * *

Ian’s day off (Sunday) can’t come soon enough. They pass it just being friends, laughing and bickering and going on with their lives, and Mickey doesn’t think he’s ever felt this happy. And he can’t help but anticipate that, if he feels this blissful just being  _ friends  _ with Ian, than he’ll probably die if they ever move beyond that. He doesn’t think his mind would be able to correctly process so much happiness.

Sunday eventually does roll around, and Mickey’s never felt more nervous in his life. He’s released from work at 4 pm (benefits of being sort-of the boss: you can skip the dinner rush a few times a week) and he takes a few deep breaths before he enters the house, because he knows whose face will greet him. But when he walks through the door, he’s surprised to find that Ian is not on the couch, or at the table. He knocks tentatively at Iggy’s door, and when he receives no response, he pushes open the door to find it empty, as well.

Mickey tells himself that Ian’s whereabouts are not meant to constantly be his business, but he still feels his heart race a little bit in panic. He hadn’t seen him this morning, either, but just assumed that he had been sleeping in. 

He thinks, suddenly, to the fact that Ian wandered all the way from Chicago to Azurra. What the fuck was stopping him from picking up and leaving again? Mickey? He doesn’t let himself become delusional enough to believe that. Had he pushed too far? Was this Ian’s way of rejecting him?

Fuck.  _ Fuck.  _

He’s contemplating if he should start drafting up ‘ _ Missing: Redheaded Heartbreaker’  _ posters when the door distantly bangs open, and Mickey quickly exits Iggy’s room, shutting the door softly behind him and padding out to the living room. 

When it’s Ian that he sees, holding a shopping bag, he feels extremely stupid. 

“Mickey!” Ian greets happily, face lighting up with a smile, and Mickey’s fears wash away. “You’re home early.”

“Didn’t wanna brave the tourist onslaught at dinner,” Mickey tells him, absently. He’s too busy feeling lightheaded with relief and slight embarrassment. “Watchya got?”

Ian looks at him questioningly, and then down at the bags in his hands. “Oh! I went to the thrift store near the Outlet. I only own like, six articles of clothing. Needed something new now that I’m working more. If I have to wear this tank top again, I might lose my mind.” Ian gestures to the familiar teal green tank top clinging to his body, and Mickey thinks that he might lose his mind, too.

“Gotcha.”

Ian disappears into Iggy’s room without another word, and then reappears, heading directly to the kitchen.

Mickey takes a seat on the couch, staring absently at the blank television, until Ian finally joins him, sitting maybe a little too close and swallowing down spoonfuls of Cheerio’s. Ian draws his knees up to his chest, and Mickey wonders how someone so tall can look so small and...cute.

“Missed ya at breakfast,” Mickey offers, as a way to distract himself from the urge to wrap an arm around Ian. 

Cuddling doesn’t seem like something two people do  _ before _ a first date.

Ian shrugs, stirring his cereal absently. “I, uh. Went to church,” he mumbles.

Mickey blinks, freezing in surprise. He looks at Ian, whose expression suggests he’s already tired of the conversation, but Mickey just cannot let the statement go without a few questions.

“The fuck?” is the first one that comes to his lips.

Ian sighs. “It’s just a thing I do, alright? I don’t really believe in God, but I went to church with my sister back in Chicago and it just always seems to make life feel a little bit more grounded.”

“Are there even any churches in this neighborhood?” Mickey asks. He had never even taken notice. Coming from a family previously deeply involved in the city’s string of the literal mob, he expects that the name Milkovich and the Christian community wouldn’t mix. 

“Yeah, sure. I go to the one a few blocks down, the non-denominational one. Those are usually the most open-minded people.” Ian sips a bit of the milk from the bowl in his hands. He shrugs again. “I just like routine. They let me eat their food and drink their coffee if I let them witness to me or whatever. They eat that troubled kid shit up with a fuckin’ spoon.”

Mickey huffs out a breath. “And the whole gay stripper thing doesn’t throw ‘em off?”

Ian makes a face, at nothing in particular. “I prefer to keep that to myself. I’ve only been there for a few Sundays, anyway. In a month or two when I don’t have my big ‘Praise Jesus’ aha moment, they’ll stop being so generous, I’m sure. Then it won’t fuckin’ matter what they learn about me. I’ve seen a few of the husbands on Queen Street already, anyway.”

Mickey nearly chokes at the blasé way Ian says it. “You mean to tell me--”

“By now I’ve got dirt on every fag in this section of the Jersey shore,” Ian says mildly. “‘Specially the Christian ones.” He gives a wicked smile around his spoon, contrasting with his casual tone. “Can’t hurt.”

Mickey just watches him, unsure if the feeling in his gut is wariness at Ian’s apparent evil streak or  _ intense _ arousal. Probably both. Definitely both.

Mickey scratches the tip of his nose nervously, looking away from the boy next to him and back at the black television. “Did your groupie come ‘round last night?”

“No, not last night...oh, shit!” Ian drops the spoon he’s holding into the now-empty bowl in his lap. “I forgot! He showed up at church this morning.”

Mickey pauses, uneasiness prickling in his spine. “He what?”

“Yeah,” Ian continues, breezing over it like it’s nothing. “Like I said, I’ve only been going for a few weeks. This was only like my third time, he could go there on the regular and I wouldn’t really know the difference. I don’t think he even saw me.”

“Hm.”

They leave it there, Mickey’s bristled disposition seemingly lost on the younger boy. Externally, Mickey sits stock-still, but internally, every alarm he’s got is singing. A man becomes fixated on an exotic dancer, buying two or three dances a night, and then suddenly shows up at his church? It all smells pretty Jeffrey Dahmer-esque to Mickey, but Ian is the one with experience in these situations, so he figures he should just let it go. He has a habit of being paranoid, anyway.

Eventually, Ian is the one to break him out of his brooding, with a light push to his arm.

Mickey turns his head to gaze at him, and Ian almost looks shy.

“So,” the redhead begins apprehensively. “We goin’ out tonight?” That’s when Ian traces a light, almost teasing finger down Mickey’s bicep, causing his heart to beat so fast he thinks it’s going to ascend from his chest and join his ancestors in the Great Beyond.

_ Keep it together, Milkovich, please.  _

“Fuck yeah, we are,” he finally huffs out gruffly. 

When he meets Ian’s eyes again, the other boy’s expression goes directly to his cock. One eyebrow raised and the ghost of a smirk, Ian looks like he could chew Mickey up and spit him out right there. Even worse, Mickey would probably thank him for it.

After a few seconds of the most intense eye contact he has ever experienced, Mickey is certain that they won’t even make it out the door. He’s ready right then, right there, to fuck taking it slow and sink his teeth into the much more desirable plan of taking it hard and fast and rough and immediately.

Ian leans towards Mickey’s ear, his breath warm and tangible and creating goosebumps on Mickey’s skin. He seems like he’s going to whisper something, and Mickey’s ready for it to be the absolute death of him when, for the millionth  _ fucking  _ time, the goddamn door bangs open and shatters the moment.

Mickey stands up and literally almost strangles his brother without remorse. And he would have, right then, if it weren’t for the gangly figure that reveals itself just in time.

Mickey stares, eyebrows shooting up. “The fuck?”

“Miss me?” Colin’s inadvertent savior sneers. 

“Iggy--the  _ fuck  _ are you doin’ out?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't reply to comments a lot ik but just know that i read every single one and appreciate them more than i can express with words


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are y'all ready to vomit up all this cheese

“What the _fuck_ are you doin’ rentin’ my room out?” Iggy retorts, taking a step forward.

“W--I thought you still had two more months!” Mickey defends.

Iggy grins. “Overcrowding, bitch! _This_ guy is a free man.” Iggy peers around Mickey at Ian, who sits watching the exchange warily, fingers restless. “You gonna introduce me to your boyfriend?”

Mickey opens his mouth dumbly, and then fixes Colin with a hard glare, who raises his hands to declare his innocence.

“I didn’t say a fuckin’ word,” Colin insists.

“‘M Ian,” Ian speaks up, not moving from his spot on the couch. Mickey’s glad he doesn’t try to shake his brother’s hand or anything; it would only get him mercilessly teased. “And I’m not his boyfriend,” Ian finishes.

“Aw, well, I don’t blame you,” Iggy laughs, taking a few steps forward and squeezing Mickey’s cheeks with a vice grip. “Who’d wanna kiss this ugly mug, anyway?” Mickey swats his brother’s hands away. If looks could kill, everyone in that room would be toast.

“Come on, Gallagher,” Mickey mutters, pissed for a plethora of reasons. “Let’s get outta here.” He doesn’t even wait for Ian to stand before he’s storming out the door. He vaguely hears Iggy shout something after them, but God only knows what it is.

“Mick!” Ian calls, rushing to catch up. “Christ, slow down.”

Mickey takes about ten more steps before he stops and gives out a strangled yell of frustration. “Fuck! My fucking brothers, man. Assholes.” He’s not making much sense, but Ian’s face says he understands.

“Yeah, I had five siblings back in Chicago. I get it.”

“No fucking--” Mickey stops short, but Ian finishes the sentence.

“Privacy? Respect? Yeah.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Mickey enunciates again, scrubbing a hand down his face, trying his hardest to take a deep breath. They resume walking, no particular destination in mind.

“You ever think about getting your own place?” Ian finally asks, after a block and a half.

Mickey opens his mouth to answer, but realizes that he doesn’t have an answer. He hasn’t thought about it. He’s always lived with his siblings, in that same house. They pay the bills together, they buy the food together. It’s their home. He’d never had a reason to consider moving out, considering he hadn’t had any sort of serious relationship before.

“No, I haven’t,” Mickey admits. “Never had a real reason to.”

“Aren’t you around the age when people start to think about it?” Ian asks carefully.

Mickey shrugs. “Nineteen.”

“Right. So, the age when people start to think about it.”

Mickey runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I guess.”

Ian seems to drop it, then, leaving Mickey to his own thoughts on the matter. He doesn’t think he could handle living on his own. The silence of it would be too much. He’s too used to constantly swimming in noise, the bangs and muttering and laughter of living with three or four or five other people.

“Am I gonna have to leave, then?” Ian asks suddenly. “Now that your brother’s back.” He seems to hesitate at the end of the clarification, as if he wants to tack “from prison” on at the end, but decides against it.

“No, you’re not leavin’,” Mickey rejects immediately. “Iggy was dumb enough to get thrown in the joint. Ain’t your fuckin’ fault he came back unannounced.”

Ian makes an uncertain noise in the back of his throat. “I don’t wanna take his bedroom. It’s his house, not mine.”

“Red…” Mickey starts, but he doesn’t know how to continue. All he knows is, if Ian were to leave now, he might as well rip Mickey’s heart out and chuck it into the ocean. He’s gotten too used to having Ian around after just a week, so fuck Iggy if he thinks he can push Ian out now. “We’ll figure something out. You’re not fuckin’ goin’ back to that shithole you were in. You can take my bed or some shit, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Ian gives him a skeptical look. “Mick, I’m not taking your bed.”

“The fuck not?”

Ian looks exasperated. “Because, I’m already fuckin’...encroaching on your family. You don’t think you’ll mind but--” He stops short, seeming to bite off his next words.

“But, what?” Mickey asks. Ian is quiet, but Mickey waits, focusing instead on the heavy taste of dusk in his lungs and the light sound of their footsteps, just ever so slightly out of sync.

“You’ll resent me. Eventually.” The words are small but sure, and they stab Mickey in the stomach like a javelin, almost knocking the wind out of him.

“How the fuck--” Mickey stops walking, dazed. “I--Fuck, Ian, you’re…”

_Everything._

That’s what he thinks. That’s what he means. Ian had stuck his foot in Mickey’s life for seven fucking days and ruined it for anyone else that would even attempt the same thing. Mickey’s sure of it. He’s done for. Even after Ian’s long gone, (which, Mickey hates to admit it, but he expects it), even after he’s forgotten Mickey’s name, he’ll still have ruined Mickey for anyone else.

_Fuck._

“You’re an idiot,” he finishes, softly, without bite. “Don’t resent you now, not gonna resent you in the future.” Ian blinks at him a few times, visibly phased.

“I’ll take the couch,” Ian grumbles anyway, turning away. They resume walking, but Mickey isn’t finished.

“No, you will not take the fuckin’ couch. It’s right next to the kitchen, you won’t get any fuckin’ sleep. You work ‘til three in the fuckin’ mornin’, you can’t wake up at 6 am when Colin gets his ass up. You’ll take my bed. And I’ll take my floor because _I_ don’t wanna wake up at 6 am, either.” Mickey’s tone enforces that he’s done arguing. Ian contributes a loud sigh, but Mickey can feel he’s won. When Ian doesn’t say anything more, Mickey knows he has.

“God,” Ian huffs out after a stretched out silence. “You always have fuckin’...rational points. I hate you.”

Mickey only laughs.

“Where are we even goin’, anyway?” Ian asks.

Mickey considers this for a moment, and then makes a decision. It's not like he wants to go back to his house. So he outstretches his arms, and shoots Ian a smug smile. “On a date.”

“Right,” Ian says in a tone Mickey can only describe as skeptical. “But where?”

Mickey just shrugs, keeps his mouth shut, and hopes he isn’t hyping the shit out of something stupid.

* * *

 

_December 31st, ‘15_

_Who knew army brats were such big bottoms? I know that’s a hell of a way to start when I haven’t written anything in almost a week, but Jesus Christ. I’ve pounded half my dorm. Sex is how you assert dominance around here, so I’m not complaining. It’s like prison but voluntary._

_One thing we can do other than fuck each other, work out, or receive emotional abuse is leave to be in the town nearby and do things. Like see movies._

_Which brings me to my next thought: what the fuck is up with all the sequels and reboots? Why am I just now noticing how shitty today’s content has become? Have we really created so many things that nothing new can come from our fingertips? Do we really NEED another goddamn Ice Age movie? Did we really need a FIRST Ice Age movie? This is probably a topic that has been rehashed a million times, ironically enough, but do I give a shit? No. I’m angry._

_That’s what we saw at the shitty dollar theater. I wanted to see literally anything else but my dumbass bunkmates wanted to see Ice Age 4 or 5 or 12 or whatever. That’s how I spent my New Year’s Eve. Doomed to listen to more of Ray Romano’s voice than I ever intended to in my life. Tonight some of the other guys are going out to celebrate at midnight, but I don’t think I’ll go. Everyone else will be grabbing some random girl to kiss; fucking a guy because that’s how the social ladder works in basic and kissing a guy at midnight in some grand romantic gesture are two vastly different things. I don’t even like anybody here as a friend, let alone enough to proclaim infatuation. They’re the kind of people who pay money to see Ice Age 45._

_I refuse to admit that I’m miserable. Unadjusted is a better word. I miss my family I miss my freedom I miss my old clothes I miss my city. But I can’t leave anyway, so why complain. I can’t leave. Where would I go? At least here I have food and somewhere marginally warm to sleep._

_I have nothing left._

_This is a weird time in my life. Maybe someday all this shit will make sense. Maybe someday I’ll feel that pull back home. Because right now, no matter how much I miss Chicago, I feel like vomiting at the very thought of going back._

_Everything there reminds me of him, how he sucked me in. How he chose me over Marce because I would willingly give him what he forced out of her. How I fell for it._

_I wish I could erase him from existence._

_I wish I could cling to the thought that maybe my family might look hard enough to find me. I know that’s not true. That’s about as unlikely as me waking up and realizing Jaq was all just a bad dream. Me being gone just means one less mouth to feed. They won’t look until it’s convenient again._

_My New Year’s resolution is to learn how to be on my own. I think I’m doing well. In fact, I’m realizing how it’s not much different from my life in Chicago. Maybe I’ve been all alone for longer than I thought._

* * *

 

They end up at Leo’s faster than Mickey anticipates. He takes a breath, pushes through the door, nods to the skinny kid at the cash register. The new one, the one that’s replaced his old position.

“Leo here?” he barks out. The kid juts a thumb towards the back, and Mickey stands, waits, scratches lightly at the tip of his nose. When the kid makes no attempt to move, he rolls his eyes.

“You deaf?” Mickey finally prompts. The kid stares at him, unamused and apparently not intending to acknowledge him. Oh no, Mickey does _not_ have time for this bullshit.

“Would you get him? Please? Before I put a foot up your bony ass, and then fire you?” he implores with a false air of politeness. The kid snaps to attention, bored expression slipping from his face like it was a mask hiding the wide eyes now dominating his expression. Mickey holds in a laugh. He can’t do much, but he sure can put the fear of God in teenage assholes with just a few words. The kid finally rushes out of his seat behind the counter and heads to the back.

“You coulda just gone back to the kitchen, Mick,” Ian says next to him, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Yeah, but how the fuck is that fun for me?” Mickey shoots back. Ian laughs, shoving his hands into his front pockets.

“What are we doin’ here, anyway? Romantic dinner a la Leo’s Pizzeria?” Ian asks with a smirk.

“Ay listen, this place is a shithole, but it’s my shithole. Be gentle,” Mickey retorts. “And no, we’re not stayin’ here long,” he tacks on after a second of Ian’s quiet laughter. He takes the remaining few moments before his boss emerges to focus on how pretty Ian’s freckles are. Very pretty. Very fucking pretty.

“Milkovich!” Leo yells, causing Mickey to nearly jump out of his fucking skin.

“Jesus Christ, Leo, you always gotta fuckin’ scream?” Mickey calls back, turning to glare at the man.

“Loud fat Italian man is good for the brand,” Leo responds.

Mickey shoots a glance to the ceiling, and Ian chuckles next to him.

“Yeah, alright. You got the keys?” Mickey shifts from one foot to the other, nervous as hell.

Leo’s eyes flit from Mickey to Ian, a few times, back and forth. “ _This_ is your date?” Leo finally asks. A burst of defensive energy swells in Mickey’s chest, as Ian seems to shrink beside him.

Maybe he should deny it. Maybe he should call Ian his buddy, his wingman, pretend he’s doing this for a girl. Maybe he should just take it easy, choose pretending over freedom. But the way Ian’s looking at him now nervously, like he’s ready to be denied, but hoping to God maybe Mickey will pull through, Mickey doesn’t want easy. He doesn’t want to pretend. He wants the freedom. And really...what the fuck’s he got to lose?

“Yeah,” Mickey confirms. “You got a problem?” He clenches his jaw and prepares for whatever his boss has to say. Coming out so far has been smooth, but maybe his luck’s run out. Maybe Leo will fire him, out him, send his sons after him. Mickey would take it. Anything’s worth it, right? Even if Ian’s gone in a day, anything’s worth the freedom?

They seem to stare at each other for forever, disbelief gradually creeping into Leo’s face.

“Boy, I couldn’t care less who you shack up with,” Leo finally says, with a noncommittal shrug. “You, though? Ladies man Mickey Milkovich? Womanizer extraordinaire? Azurra’s resident ex-teen menace? An…” he pauses for half a beat. “ _Occhio fino_? I’m just shocked.”

“Leo, just because you say it in Italian doesn’t make it less fuckin’ offensive,” Mickey sighs out, dropping his forehead to his hand and rubbing his temples. He just wants to leave. “And yes, I like dudes,” Mickey finishes, turning to the boy beside him minutely, gratified by the upward tilt that takes hold of the corners of Ian’s mouth. “Can I have the goddamn keys or am I gonna have to just walk?” he demands, turning back to his boss, suddenly even more impatient to get going.

Leo throws up his hands in surrender, spinning and disappearing into the kitchen, only to reappear a moment later with a ring of keys dangling from his fingers. When Mickey leans forward to take them, Leo grabs him by the collar of his shirt.

“Wreck my car and I will _kill_ you,” he growls out, before dropping the keys into Mickey’s outstretched hand and releasing his shirt.

Mickey pulls back, straightens his shirt, fixes his boss with a pointed glare. “Gimme more fuckin’ credit, Leo. I run this shitshack. I won’t crash your shitty car.”

Mickey can feel the middle finger directed at his back even after they leave the restaurant.

* * *

_January 2nd, '16_

_I almost wrote '15. Not used to the new year yet. I thought maybe once 2016 rolled around I'd be used to being here, but I still hate it. I'm supposed to be training to be a hero, but I feel like the goddamn walls are closing in even when I'm outside._

_It's not about the yelling. It's not about the degrading shit. I don't give a shit about that, I'm not a pussy. I don't cry like the rest of them._

_Ever since I left it feels like something's been knocked ever so slightly to the left. Like a trinket on the shelf that's been shifted so that it's balanced precariously on one side. Not falling off, but one more push..._

_I can't sleep right. I wake up earlier than the bugle call even though I can't fall asleep until hours after lights out. I'm pushing myself hard; I can't feel it during training but I feel it afterwards. I'm not the most sore because I was less fit than the other guys. But when I'm training, it's when I feel like I can breathe at least a little bit, and I just push and push and push far past the time when the fire in my chest is burning in warning. I can't stop that. I just keep going, it makes me feel real. The pain makes me feel real._

_Hurting myself makes me feel real. How fucking sick is that?_

_My commander pulled me aside and told me that I'm acting weird. That I'm acting suspicious. He meant that I'm acting crazy. That's what he meant._

_But I'm not crazy. I'm not fucking crazy._

_I feel hopeless, but I can't stop moving. If I stop moving...fuck, if I stop moving, I won't know what to do. Think? I can't do that._

_I don't know what to call how I'm feeling but I'm not crazy._

_He said one more slip up and I'm on my way to a section 8. I don't know what my first slip up was. I thought I was doing well._

_My doubt makes this all feel like an illusion. Am I imagining that I'm succeeding? When was my first fucking slip up? It's been driving me insane for hours. I don't know why I didn't ask._

_If I get kicked out I don't know where I'll go._

_I just can't get kicked out. Simple as that._

* * *

 

Mickey cannot express his gratitude to Colin for demanding he learn how to drive stick.

“Automatic’s for pussies,” his brother had said. “What if you jack a car and it ain’t automatic? The cops will be right up your dumb ass because you won’t know how to get the goddamn thing to go.”

Considering that was in the prime time of his brush with the underground car salesman community, that quelled any further arguments he’d had on the matter.

And now, sitting in Leo’s silver 1999 Corvette with an exclusively manual transmission that he’s so goddamn proud of, Mickey considers his brother to be God. He sends a silent prayer back towards his house, promising his servitude for the rest of time, when he smoothly starts the car and shifts gears to roll forward.

“Where’d ya learn to drive stick?” Ian asks, as if on cue. He’s draped in the passenger’s seat, head propped on one hand, looking out the window idly.

“Colin. He’s worked in a garage for as long as I can remember. He knows a lot about this shit, he made us all learn. Said Milkovich’s don’t drive automatics.”

Ian snorts at that. “Sounds like my sister.”

Mickey glances at him, in the dimming daylight. “‘D you mean?”

“‘Gallagher’s don’t do this, Gallagher’s don’t do that. Nobody fucks with the Gallaghers.’ She acted like our name meant we lived on some different plane of existence. Like no one else in Chicago has a crazy mom and a drunk dad,” Ian rambles. “If I didn’t know better, she’d probably be happy that I’m fuckin’ homeless. God forbid I get out of the South Side any other way.”

“Hey, I’m sure that’s not true,” Mickey answers. He doesn’t know what else to say. Ian shrugs, but his face doesn’t indicate self-pity. It’s as if he’s just stating simple facts. He almost seems bored.

Ian sighs. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Towards when I left she landed this office job that had her suddenly all over the idea of leaving. Before, though? It’s like she thought if she couldn’t get out, none of us could,” Ian explains with a conversational tone.

“I was the first in my family to finish high school,” Mickey offers. “Fuck ‘em is my motto.”

Ian smiles, eyes not leaving the window. “Fuck ‘em,” he mutters in agreement.

“You got out, anyway,” Mickey continues. “Doesn’t matter how you did it. Azurra’s not great but it ain’t the South Side.”

“It sure isn’t,” Ian reiterates, quietly. He seems to go out of focus, falling quiet for a bit, and then he readjusts, sits up straight, scrutinizes the road in front of him. “Where are we going?”

Mickey just shrugs.

“ _Mickey._ ”

Mickey ignores him, again, biting back a smile when Ian huffs, crossing his arms and slouching down in his seat.

“Alright, favorite movie, go,” Mickey prompts, to distract the pouting kid.

“Christopher Reeve’s Superman,” Ian mumbles, without a thought. “You?”

“Pump Up the Volume,” Mickey answers, after a pause.

“Huh?” Ian asks. “Is that some High School Musical shit?”

“Fuck you,” Mickey laughs. His hand falls to the gear shift. “Give me more credit.”

“What the fuck is it, then? I’ve never heard of it.”

Mickey chews on his lip, glancing into the rearview mirror for no particular reason. “I don’t know, man. I saw it when I was, like, 15. It’s some shitty 90’s movie about an illegal radio show run by a high school kid and it’s all fuck the system postmodern anarchy shit. I can’t fuckin’ explain it, it barely has a plot.”

“You like postmodernist shit?” It sounds more like Ian wants to ask the question, ‘You know what postmodernism is?’ but he realizes that it would be fairly offensive. Mickey’s grateful.

“Yeah. Only part of English that I ever fuckin’ liked. Shakespeare ain’t shit.” Mickey releases the gear shift to dig around in his pocket for a cigarette, failing to extricate anything. Ian sees his struggle and reaches into his own pocket, producing a single cigarette, and then he reaches over to slip his hand into Mickey’s jean pocket and pull out his lighter.

The slight contact, with the denim creating a barrier between Ian’s fingers and Mickey’s skin, should not be so distracting. Mickey’s lucky he doesn’t swerve off the road.

Ian lights the cigarette, inhales. Mickey stops at a stoplight. The sun’s barely there anymore. Ian taps his shoulder, motions for him to lean closer. Mickey does, and if anyone says that his hand was trembling on the steering wheel, he would deny it. Then Ian’s grabbing the back of his neck, pulling at Mickey’s bottom lip with his thumb, and Mickey realizes what he’s asking.

Mickey parts his lips. Waits.

Ian closes the distance and, lightly, connects their lips. Smoke curls from rosy lips, and Ian’s eyes have never been this close, not for this long.

They’re the color of the goddamn ocean. Maybe blue and maybe brown and maybe gray but definitely, definitely mostly green. Mickey has to close his eyes to keep from drowning.

When Mickey breathes in the smoke, the burn in his chest is nothing compared to the inferno on his lips. He’s gone. He exhales through his nose and feels the smoke billow out. He always was good at that.

“Light’s green, Mick.” Ian smirks at him, and Mickey’s head whips to the light at the same time the car behind him lays on the horn. He swallows, hard, and lets go of the brake, letting the car coast forward through the intersection.

_Where am I going again?_

It takes him a minute to place their destination. He breathes a sigh of relief when he remembers, noting that he hadn’t missed a turn.

“You’re a fuckin’ dick,” Mickey finally laughs out.

“You complaining?” Ian asks, and Mickey’s not looking at him, but he can _hear_ the smug expression on his face. A lack of response from Mickey probably answers Ian’s question well enough.

Mickey’s not sure how long the comfortable silence stretches on before Ian leans forward and switches on the radio. The car fills with the exact middle of what seems to be a very intense aria, thick vibrato and all.

“Jesus!” Mickey yelps, startled. Ian just cackles.

“ _This_ is what your boss listens to?”

“I should tell the cops that Leo’s is a damn front,” Mickey grumbles as he twists the volume button to zero.

“But then you’d be out a job, _and_ have the New Jersey mob after you,” Ian points out.

“It’s not even the fuckin’ mob,” Mickey counters as he takes a corner, sharp. “Just a ton of Italian dudes that couldn’t make it in Philly sellin’ coke and yellin’ at each other. No organization to it. I don’t think Azurra even has a fuckin’ boss.”

“Why does Leo trust you to know that? Isn’t the mob all about like...just being Italian?”

“Told you, it ain’t the mob.” Mickey licks his bottom lip, wonders if he should just be completely honest. Fuck it. “My dad ran shit for a small division in Philly. Ran here when shit got bad, before I was born. My life woulda been _real_ fuckin’ different if the cops hadn’t found him and locked him up for 20 years. My last name still gets me favors and shit, though. My dad wasn’t made but his gang was as associated as they come.”

Mickey hates to talk about his dad. He always braces for the judgement, automatically wincing for whatever false emotion is thrown at him: disgust, interest, pity. Any of it just feels like too much, because Mickey’s so disconnected from his father’s business, it feels like it happened to another family. But Ian only greets him with easy acceptance, almost apathy.

“You still run shit?” he asks.

“Nah, my brothers Jaime and Joey still run coke, but they’re long gone. Left when Colin wanted out, so we wouldn’t be connected. Set back up in Philly. We’re out of the game, me and Colin and Mandy. Iggy sells weed when he has to, but he ain’t associated.”

“Milkovich’s don’t drive automatics,” Ian mumbles in conclusion. Mickey grunts his affirmation.

“How come it always comes back around to illegal activity with us?” Mickey asks.

“Bad parenting,” Ian responds, matter-of-factly.

Mickey couldn’t argue with that.

His mother was a good person, but he couldn’t call her a good parent. She had loved them, but not enough to not bring her shitty boyfriends into their house, even if she took the hits. She had loved them, but not enough to keep Jaime and Joey out of the game and Iggy out of juvie and Mickey from his countless close calls. She had loved them, but not enough to keep Mandy’s heart from being smashed over and over until she had given up on love by 16. She kept them fed, she always worked, she always helped. Every once in awhile, she would say the perfect thing at exactly the right time. She was a good fucking person, but Mickey supposes that she just wasn’t meant to be a mother. She tried, though. She really did.

Ian changes the radio station to something soft, acoustic. It melts in well with the gentle light of the 6 pm sun.

“You ever think about goin’ back?” Mickey asks, suddenly. He has no idea how long Ian’s been a runaway, but he can tell it hasn’t just been a month or two. Ian has the demeanor of an autumn leaf; he seems he could fit in anywhere, be content to let the wind blow him any direction it chooses. He doesn’t seem desperate for a solid home. He seems accustomed to nobody knowing his name.

“To Chicago? ‘Course. I miss it all the time.”

“What d’you miss about it?” Mickey’s only left New Jersey once in his nineteen years: to visit his brothers in Philly. He wouldn’t really know what missing home is like. Home has always suffocated him, permeating every aspect of his small life. He’s never thought about it before.

Ian hums in response to Mickey’s question, and for a bit, Mickey thinks he’s just going to drop it and not answer. Then, he finally speaks up.

“I miss my little siblings.” Ian’s mouth is upturned in a wistful smile. Mickey barely stops at a stop sign. The roads are beginning to narrow, the city beginning to release its clinging grip on their surroundings, giving way to an interrupted view of the bay on one side and the occasional stretch of beachy grass on the other, growing in patches along the dunes. The sun still sits stubborn, but low, in the sky, not yet surrendering itself to the other stars.

“Yeah? What’re they like?”

Ian gives a big sigh, not of exasperation or boredom, but of wishful thinking and bittersweet memories. Somehow, that’s more heartbreaking.

“Debbie’s 13. She’s like--so fucking smart. She’s a survivor, she does what she has to do. I think out of any of us...I think she needs the least help. To, like, do shit, and live life.” Ian smiles brightly. “She used to ask me about boys. I didn’t even tell her I was gay, but I think she knew. I really...I really loved when she’d ask for my advice. I always acted like I didn’t, like it was fuckin’ painful--I wish I hadn’t acted like that, because I really loved it. I did. I liked feeling needed, you know?”

Mickey nods. He knows. “Sure.”

“Then Carl--God, Carl. I don’t wanna play favorites, but…” he trails off and resigns himself to a tight-lipped, affectionate smile out the windshield. They hit their first open field within this pause, and Mickey thinks it’s safe to say they’re out of Azurra, departing from the coast.

“Carl’s a hot fucking mess,” Ian finally laughs out. Mickey laughs with him. “He’s the most boyish boy to ever exist. He explodes shit, and melts shit, and would always try to steal my knives and shit off me. He was-- _is_ a fuckin’ nightmare at school. We never had to bash anybody for fucking with him. He’d just do it himself.” Ian falls quiet, and Mickey can feel a gaze trained on him. Ian finally reaches forward, haltingly, and traces the ‘C’ tattooed on Mickey’s right middle finger, curled around the gear shift. Mickey can feel his blood pumping in his ears, and it’s all really fucking with his ability to drive safely but in no conceivable way does he want Ian to remove his fingers. He wants to turn his hand over and fit his fingers in between Ian’s. He aches to. He _needs_ to.

Fucking Leo and his goddamn stick shift.

“He’d really like you,” Ian confides in a small voice, like he’s reluctant to mix here, now, this, with his old life. He reiterates, with a stronger voice, “He’d like you a lot.”

“I always kinda wanted a little brother,” Mickey answers. He wanted to say, ‘ _I can’t wait to meet him,_ ’ but decided it seemed a bit presumptuous.

Autumn leaf, Mickey reminds himself. Here today, gone tomorrow. His grip tightens on the steering wheel, and he feels suddenly very consumed with the task of finding their next exit, though he knows it won’t appear for a few more minutes.

Ian spreads his fingers to cover Mickey’s hand, briefly, squeezing gently and then removing it faster than he had placed it.

“Mandy not enough for you?” Ian asks.

“Mandy’s...well, you know, we’re the youngest, we’ve always had to stick together. But I could never really help her with fuck all. Except bashing the guys that made her cry.” Really, Mickey wishes that he had more little siblings. He loves being a big brother; it just fits with his nature, his natural protective side. He wishes Mandy had come to him with more things, but she tended to deal with things herself, to keep shit inside. That’s probably his fault; probably his whole family’s fault. It’s not like he ever went to Iggy about things, or Colin or Jaime. “I just kinda...wanna try again. Have a kid around to let them know like...fuck. It’s alright not to know what the fuck to do. It’s alright to ask questions. And…” he taps his chest with his right index finger, producing a resounding thud. “It’s alright to _feel_ shit. I had to learn that all on my own. It wasn’t fuckin’ fun.”

Ian shifts in his seat, and Mickey glances over to find a soft, small smile on his face.

“What?” Mickey asks.

“You’re gonna make a really good dad,” Ian tells him, after a brief silence.

“I’m gonna what?” Mickey sputters, raising his eyebrows.

Ian laughs at his visceral reaction. “What you just described is called parenting, Mick.”

“I don’t want a _kid,_ ” Mickey insists. “I can’t even take care of a fish. I couldn’t keep some little shit alive for more than 3 hours.”

“So then adopt an older kid,” Ian reasons. “Not like you’re gonna be making your own any time soon, if you aren’t into girls.”

Mickey blows a strand of hair out of his face, mostly as an irritated tick than to any visible effect.

“Nah,” he finally repeats. “I smoke too much to have a kid. Doesn’t that fuck them up pretty bad?”

“We survived,” Ian points out. Mickey snorts. That’s debatable.

Mickey decides he doesn’t have anything else to say on the matter; he’s only nineteen, anyway. He’s never even entertained the _thought_ of being a father. He’d never thought that would be for him; he’d never thought he’d find anyone that he wants to start a family with. He still hasn’t. That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

“Any other siblings I should know about?” Mickey asks, obviously ending the discussion.

Ian smiles, getting the hint. Mickey listens, enraptured, as Ian rattles off facts about all of his other siblings: there’s Liam, the baby, the one everyone adores. Ian says that everything everyone does it to make sure Liam has a more normal life than they had, but no one says it out loud. Mickey understands that; he imagines that’s exactly how Colin had felt about he and Mandy. Ian then talks about Lip, the genius that went to college, that got out. Ian says he hopes Lip is still in school, and Mickey is amazed at the lack of resentment in Ian’s voice. Then he talks about Fiona, the oldest, the backbone, the selfless mother figure.

“She won custody over us,” Ian tells him. “Well, she did, but we all know it was just about the younger ones. Me and Lip, we’re never gonna see her as our mom. I don’t think she wanted us to.”

Ian tells him about his sister’s lying boyfriend, the guy with a million names (Mickey can’t remember a single one of them) that left without a word right before Ian ran. Ian supposes it all got too much.

“Everyone leaves, anyway,” Ian says, with a strained voice.

Mickey hates that he knows exactly the feeling. He wants to tell Ian that he won’t leave but it seems like the wrong thing to say. It seems like it would sound empty. Mickey doesn’t like saying things he can’t really mean. Not to people that matter.

By the time Ian’s on the subject of their demon half-sister (a woman Ian only vaguely and briefly knew, that believed the sun shined out their shitty father’s ass, that Ian wasn’t even closely related to, since his father wasn’t even really _his father_ ), Mickey is parking in an empty lot and turning off the engine. The car ride had been about 40 minutes, but Ian’s colorful home life had filled it and made it feel like barely seconds. By the time Ian’s finished his descriptions and anecdotes, Mickey’s caught between wanting to know what makes Ian smile so wide and feeling grateful that his family seems to be a bit more gray and even across the board; they’re all tough, they’re all crass, they’re all...well, they’re all Milkovich’s. He’d say the few distinctions they have aren’t special: Jaime and Joey, the absent ones. Colin, the responsible one. Iggy, the dumb one, and, conversely, there's Mickey, the smart one (which _isn’t_ arrogant if that’s what he’s been called his whole life. He got an A- in Calculus. An _A-._ ) Then there’s Mandy, the...girl. Mickey almost feels bad reducing her to such a broad descriptor, but it’s true. Mandy was always treated a bit different; she’s the baby sister.

“What’re we doing here?” Ian asks as he gets out, looking around the silent stretch of asphalt. The place is almost fucking eerie, so near to twilight, surrounded by tall oaks and maples. Dead leaves still scatter the edges with a promise that summer will end again, at some point. Mickey shrugs off the thought, still choosing to ignore Ian. He can wait five more minutes. Mickey grabs the large duffle bag he’d requested Leo pack from the backseat, and they set off.

He’d found this place when he was 14, when things got especially bad between his mother and her last boyfriend. He had stolen a car and just...drove. When the car ran out of gas, he had coasted into this parking lot, not feeling any panic in his chest like he thought he would. He had gotten out and walked, taking a path carved out minutely in the forest. Walked and walked and walked. Hadn’t thought. No room for that. The birds sang too loud for that. Just walked.

That’s what he does now, but with Ian by his side, the forest doesn’t feel quite so oppressive, or invasive. Ian’s presence is bigger than that. More important than the trees. More important than the dusk, or way the air is cooler and wetter.

They don’t talk. The forest isn’t a place for talking, and Mickey’s glad Ian can sense that.

They quietly tread their way to their destination, the forest opening to a wide clearing, littered with rusting apparatuses meant for the enjoyment of children.

The abandoned carnival, or amusement park, or whatever the fuck is still just as ugly and beautiful as Mickey remembers it. Ian shivers beside him. Mickey thinks he understands why.

The area isn’t huge; Mickey guesses that’s why whatever this was had failed, maybe decades ago. A small ferris wheel stands, tilted, broken, overgrown with vines, beside what could have been a tilt-a-whirl. A carousel sits suspended in time, ceramic horses chipped, some completely shattered. Rotting wooden shacks line the clearing, with peeling signs above the openings that would have held the carnies and their games. The gaping wooden mouth of a lion sits, barely recognizable anymore, guarding the entrance of a dilapidated building Mickey can only assume was, at one point, a funhouse.

“What is it with you and commandeering abandoned shit?” Ian asks as they stand, drinking in the beautiful-ugly-horrific-magnetic sight. “Aren’t there any trespassing laws in this state?”

“The fuck would care about this dump enough to keep people out?” Mickey asks. Ian shrugs his agreement.

Mickey has the feeling anyone who knew this existed is dead by now, anyway.

“What’re we doing here?” Ian asks again, but his tone sounds intrigued, anticipatory, and not disgusted or bored. Mickey feels relief flood through him at the prospect that he might have done well, for once.

“What’s missin’?” Mickey asks, gesturing around to the scene. Ian squints, and doesn’t answer, clearly lost. Mickey drops his bag and unzips it, pulling out two cans of spray paint and tossing one to Ian. “Vandalism,” he says, answering his own question.

Ian glances down at the can in his hand, and then claps his other hand over his heart, swooning. “You sure know the way to a gal’s heart, Mickey Milkovich,” Ian breathes with half-fake passion.

Mickey winks at him, catching the pleased smile that Ian ends his theatrics with, causing Mickey’s heart to thud in his chest and his fingers to tighten around the can. _Fuck_ , if he wouldn’t die for that smile.

Mickey starts in before Ian does, uncapping his can of black paint and shaking lazily, listening to Ian do the same. Mickey has plenty of practice with graffiti, but this feels different: slower, more important. Like whatever he does now will matter. Will determine something far into the future. There’s no panic, no rush. This is art, he realizes.

Will that stop Mickey from getting in a few well-drawn dicks, though? No.

And that’s exactly what they do at first, laughing and pushing and calling each other immature while they grace the amusement park with their phallic representations.

Honestly, nothing could have been more perfect.

Then, Mickey pulls out the baggie of weed that he’d bought from Leo (who had demanded extra just for the placement in the duffle bag and the use of his car, the asshole) and struggles with the joint as he sits against one of the booths and attempts to roll it on the leaf littered grass.

“Need some help, there?” Ian asks, throwing himself down beside Mickey and flashing him a grin.

“Fuck you,” Mickey growls in response, finally rolling the paper to completion and licking a line across the glued end, sealing it. He uses the end of his shoelace to pack the weed further in, twisting the joint closed and offering it to Ian, who takes it and accepts Mickey’s light without hesitation. Ian pulls on the joint, smoke puffing from his mouth before he inhales sharply, drawing it all in with a squint and holding it in his chest. He passes the joint, and Mickey takes it gratefully, following suit and relishing in the smoky-sweet-sour taste on his tongue and the easy burn in his chest. Ian blows his smoke out into the darkening air, Mickey scoots forward and falls back, releasing it to the sky. It’s only a second before Ian lays back, too. The stars are already beginning to pepper the lavender dome above them. Mickey knew that they would. It’s all too dark around here to pretend something bigger doesn’t exist.

“Space is like...so fuckin’ cool,” Mickey observes as he passes the joint to Ian, fingers brushing and lingering for a millisecond too long.

“You’re a poet,” Ian muses, flatly, taking a drag.

“Fuck off,” Mickey responds, weakly slapping at Ian’s arm. He crosses his ankles and thinks maybe the sky has shifted to the slightest shade of deep purple within those few moments. Maybe he’s just imagined that. Ian passes the joint back, and Mickey nearly drops it, a little preoccupied watching smoke spill from Ian’s lazily parted lips.

“Did you know,” Mickey says around the joint as he tucks it between his lips and turns his head back to gaze at the sky, “that all of space is completely silent? Like totally fuckin’ quiet. Nothing can make noise without an atmosphere or some shit.” He inhales, and settles nicely into the way his head buzzes the smallest bit. “Not even that  _bzzz_  sound you hear in movies.”

“Did _you_ know,” Ian responds, leaning over and snatching the joint from Mickey’s mouth, ignoring his grunt of protest, “that if two pieces of the same kind of metal touch in space they, like, fuse together forever? The atoms just bond because they don’t have any concept of boundaries. They just think it’s all one big happy world of atoms to bond with.”

Mickey didn’t know that, but he’s glad he does now. He feels like it might mean something bigger than just a factoid, but he can’t put a finger on what it could be.

“I used to wanna be an astronaut,” Mickey confides. He doesn’t follow up; just lets it hang there.

“I used to wanna be a superhero,” Ian states, letting it slide out low and sad with the smoke in his lungs.

And it is sad.

In fact, it’s heartbreaking.

They both had wanted something big.

People like them weren’t allowed greatness, though. Mickey boils at the thought, but it’s true. Five siblings each, parents long gone. Ian comes from halfway across the country, but Mickey imagines their neighborhoods could be nearly interchangeable.

Ian still seems like he was meant for something a lot better, though. Maybe it’s naive or lovesick to think so, but Ian’s just too damn good for this. Mickey’s sure of it.

They finish the joint in silence as the sky darkens, and Mickey’s sure he would roll his eyes at this, if it were happening to anyone but himself.

But here, now, in this moment? He gets it.

“Fuck.”

Mickey’s not sure who says it, it’s so quiet, barely there. Maybe they say it together, breathe it as a collective, but before he can think about it, there’s a thumb on his chin that’s turning his face to the side, and Ian is pressing his mouth to Mickey’s, stealing away his thoughts.

There aren’t stars behind Mickey’s closed eyelids like everybody says. There aren’t fireworks, no. No. There’s a spark in his skin, but the feeling that results isn’t an explosion. It’s a glow starting in his head and spreading through his body like alcohol in his veins. It’s sunshine under his skin, in his chest, in the back of his throat. Especially there. He’s warm.

It takes a second for Mickey to relax into the kiss, but when he does, he rolls onto his side, disconnecting their lips for a second to place a hand on Ian’s chest, shivering when Ian stretches his arm out to press his hand to Mickey’s back, pulling him closer. Mickey drops his lips to Ian’s again, gently, fingers splaying out against the fabric of Ian’s shirt and then bunching it up.

Mickey feels like if he doesn’t hold on tight, Ian will just blow away with the breeze.

Mickey shifts closer, tilting his head and reconnecting their lips softly, and Ian links the fingers of their free hands together, pulling Mickey onto him, not breaking their lazy kiss as Mickey settles his full weight on top of Ian, releasing his hand and tracing a hand down the other’s bicep, finally settling on Ian’s hip, the hand previously on Ian’s chest reaching up to cup his cheek, instead.

Mickey pulls back, only for the shortest moment, and his mind suggests that he wants to say something, but he can’t place what it is, so he just smiles, probably dumbly, and melts back into another kiss.

The gratification of kissing Ian feels exponentially better than Mickey had expected it to. Because here, laying pressed against him, his warmth and scent intoxicating and invigorating all at once, Mickey’s sure he’s drifted to another planet, where he’s a different person with a different brain with the sole function of doing everything that he can to keep himself here, right here, doing this, forever.

He’s really just so fucking infatuated with the boy below him that Ian’s lips on his own almost hurt.

They certainly burn.

Ian tangles a hand in Mickey’s hair, carding through it possessively, causing Mickey to sigh into his mouth and deepen the kiss, gently swiping a thumb over Ian’s cheek. Ian traces his tongue over Mickey’s bottom lip, leaving sparks in his wake, and Mickey rocks against him minutely, parting his lips to welcome Ian’s tongue.

The sunshine in his bones intensifies, and suddenly he’s a fucking inferno.

It almost scares him enough to pull back; in fact, he tries, but Ian follows his lips, fingers tightening in his hair and keeping him in place, like he felt it too, like he’s burning just as hot.

_Fuck._

HIs head feels fuzzy in the best possible way, filled with THC and night air and _Ian_.

Ian slides the hand that’s settled lightly on Mickey’s back down to slip into his back pocket, and Mickey practically whines into the other boy’s mouth. He’d be embarrassed if he gave any _semblance_ of a fuck. Thankfully, right now, he doesn’t.

Ian kisses him like he’s the whole Earth and, God, if that’s true, Mickey thinks, Ian’s the goddamn _sun._

This, right here, this can’t be symbiotic, it can’t be mutually beneficial, because Mickey has no idea how he could make Ian feel this _good_.

The Earth doesn’t do _shit_ for the sun.

Mickey pulls away, breathless, bracing one arm next to Ian’s head and gazing at him with parted lips, his fingers digging solidly into Ian’s hip.

“The fuck happened to taking it slow?” Mickey pants out, and his cock twitches at Ian’s responding smirk, a flush settling through his body when Ian rocks them over, pushing Mickey heavily to his back and straddling him.

“Just kissing you,” Ian tells him, with faux innocence that does _not_ match his wicked smile and the way he grabs Mickey’s wrists, pinning them above his head, dropping his lips to Mickey’s in a kiss that’s leaps and bounds away from the way they had been kissing seconds ago. It’s feverish, searing, and the way Ian’s grinding lightly down onto him does not support the sentiment that any part of this is chaste, anymore.

Does Mickey care? _Fuck_ no.

His breath hitches when Ian traces his lips against Mickey’s cheek, teeth grazing his earlobe, and then settling on a spot above his pulse.

He wants Ian to fuck him so badly that it physically hurts, the need fucking throbbing through his body in an all-consuming ache.

But Mickey, even in his unbearably turned on state, is at least able to recognize a few flaws with this plan. For starters, he didn’t bring lube or condoms, which in hindsight was a poor decision, and he might not have a lot of experience fucking dudes (translation: none), but he is very aware of the fact that it is _not_ as Grab N’ Go as heterosexual sex. Besides that fairly glaring issue, Mickey’s never even fucked a guy before. Or more specifically, never _been_ fucked, since currently the thing making him so hard that it’s painful is the thought of Ian inside him. That seems to speak volumes about his sexual preferences, if nothing else. 

Then, Mickey starts to actually _think_ , which is a tough feat with Ian Gallagher sucking on his neck.

_Am I even ready for this?_

He literally _just_ realized his sexual orientation, had _just_ accepted his attraction towards another boy, and maybe this isn’t too fast for Ian, but is it too fast for Mickey?

He’s only afforded a few seconds to ponder this thought before Ian lets go of his wrists and slips a hand down to grab his dick through his jeans, dropping his head to kiss Mickey again, and every doubt he has flies out of his mind, out of this world, out of this universe, probably never to return again.

 _Fuck,_ he wants Ian.

He places his hands on Ian’s waist, and can’t help the way he arches into the younger boy’s touch. He sits up, pulling Ian fully onto his lap, needing him to be closer, and bites Ian’s lip lightly, drawing it away and releasing it, pleased when Ian lets out a gasp of his own and wraps an arm around Mickey’s neck. He takes the opportunity to push Ian gently back, falling with him, not disconnecting their lips as he grinds down with more purpose, falling between Ian’s legs, sighing out when Ian wraps his legs around Mickey’s waist. Mickey places one arm under Ian’s thigh, needlessly supporting it, and threads the other through his red hair as he braces himself with his forearm on the ground.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Ian gasps out when Mickey grinds against him, hard, and the single syllable brings Mickey to the realization that he’s already close, just from rutting against Ian. Like a horny fucking teenager.

That is technically what they are, Mickey reasons with himself. Is nineteen still a teenager? He can’t find it in himself to care when Ian wines against his mouth and tugs on his hair roughly, edging him closer.

Fuck, he thinks he could come just from _kissing_ Ian. He might, right now.

Mickey pulls back briefly to give a particularly deliberate roll of his hips, and the way Ian throws his head back and arches up against him is, indisputably, the _hottest_ thing he has seen in his life thus far. He’s convinced he could come just from seeing Ian like this, squirming for friction.

Fuck. _Fuck._

“Fuck, Ian, you’re so fucking hot,” he breathes out, unable to stop himself from maybe sounding stupid, but Ian seems to be urged on by this, dragging Mickey down into another desperate kiss.

He’s determined not to break before Ian does, maybe some sort of pride thing, (he’s the older one, he should be more experienced, more controlled, not the stuttering mess that he really is inside right now), but if they keep going like this, he knows he doesn’t have much left in him. So, in between an upward swing in his rhythm, he removes his hand from Ian’s thigh to the button of his shorts, pulling it free so he can slip his hand in to palm the younger boy through his boxers.

“Fuck, Mickey, _fuck,_ ” Ian stutters with the added friction. Ian drops his legs from around Mickey’s waist, leaning up to mirror Mickey’s actions, popping the button of his jeans and shoving his hand gracelessly to grab him through his boxers as well. Mickey drops his forehead to Ian’s, their heavy breath intermingling.

Mickey is torn between hating Ian for throwing them off even ground again by taking away a layer of fabric from him and letting himself be consumed by the feeling of Ian palming his cock.

He can feel it, the heat in his gut, the warning that this will be over soon, the sting in his eyes, and he crashes back down onto Ian’s lips for a bruising kiss as Ian rocks up into his hand and gasps sharply against his mouth.

“Mick, fuck, I’m there, I--”

_Oh, thank fuck._

If Ian had lasted another minute Mickey knows he would have been done for.

Ian comes beneath Mickey’s hand with a moan of Mickey’s name (and scratch what he said before, _that_ is the hottest thing he has ever seen, or heard, in his life), dragging Mickey, panting and broken, over the edge with him. He kisses Ian to swallow the noises coming from his mouth which, regrettably, are uncontrollable and nonsensical.

Then Mickey’s coming, long and hard, in his boxers like a 14 year old, not registering that he’ll have to deal with the sticky consequences for the rest of the night.

Their hands finally still, and Mickey falls away from Ian, falling onto his back with a heavy exhale.

He’s not sure which one of them starts laughing first, but once they start, they don’t stop for a good minute and a half, giggling like idiots at nothing, high on the chemicals in their bloodstreams and the afterglow. They settle down slowly, until Ian starts up again on his own.

“What?” Mickey asks, with a half-laugh of his own.

“We’re gonna have to drive 45 fuckin’ minutes back to your house with jizz in our boxers,” Ian pants out as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.

And to be fair, it kind of is.

Mickey explodes into laughter, too. “Shoulda thought about that before kissin’ me, Gallagher,” Mickey laughs out, brightly.

“Oh yeah? This is my fault?” Ian pokes him in the ribs, then pinches his side, causing Mickey to flinch away with a laugh. “This is all my fault, huh?” Ian laughs out, digging his fingers into Mickey’s sides relentlessly, and then reaching over and pulling him into a loose headlock with one arm, holding him down to tickle him more.

“Fuck, _uncle,_ Jesus,” Mickey gasps out, with reluctant laughter, “ _okay_ , maybe--fuck! Maybe it was my fault, too.” Ian finally releases him, satisfied, but Mickey doesn’t move his head from where it’s fallen, on Ian’s chest, so Ian wraps an arm around Mickey’s shoulders and pulls him closer. He can’t stop smiling, and he kind of feels like an idiot for it, and he can already feel the stickiness in his boxers begin to become uncomfortable and cold, but he feels good anyway, like he’s home. Safe. He places a hand on Ian’s rising and falling chest and takes an easy breath.

The sky, black and dotted with constellations, is picture perfect.

Maybe Mickey won’t make fun of Mandy’s rom-coms anymore.

He’s not sure how much longer they lay there, before they finally mumble an agreement to get up and get ready to leave. Mickey begins to pack up the paint, but Ian stops him, pulling a few different colors of paint from the bag and heading to the least dilapidated side of the maybe-funhouse with purpose, ordering Mickey to stay where he is.

Ian’s gone long enough for Mickey to roll another joint and smoke the whole thing by himself.

Ian finally does come back, dragging Mickey to his feet and over to the wall by the hand, and Mickey pauses, blinking dumbly at the art.

It’s good. Like, really good, considering Ian had only been working on it for approximately 30 minutes. Not _perfect_ , but good enough that Mickey’s shocked into silence.

A person, clearly an astronaut judging by the domed helmet, stands with a hand outstretched to another person, in a cape, with a bright red head of hair. Above the astronaut’s hand floats a tiny planet.

Mickey can’t stop himself from grinning at how unreal and corny it is (maybe just because he's considerably higher than he was a half hour ago), and Ian grins back at him, squeezing his hand.

“What d’ya think?” Ian asks, proudly.

Mickey laughs in disbelief, rolling his eyes. “You’re fuckin’ ridiculous. Jesus.” His voice comes out much more breathless than he intended, and Ian’s smile widens.

Mickey expresses his gratitude, though, by pulling Ian down into another lingering kiss, swimming in the smell of weed and aerosol paint and a hint of Ian’s soap.

And fuck, if he isn’t glowing.

* * *

 

  _January 5th, ‘16_

_I am buzzing. I don’t know how to fix that. I cannot stand other people, save the one or two people that I have been friends with since a very young age, who are really just my family, and it drives me insane that I do not easily make lasting healthy friendships because I am too quiet or too loud or too happy or too sad or too passionate or too something. I don’t know how to fix that. I cannot hold a stable relationship because I lie and cheat on impulses. I don’t know how to fix that. I also cannot hold a relationship because I have no concept of my real personality and instead adapt to mirror or complement the personality of the person or people group I am around. I don’t know how to fix that. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I would want to be in the future because I have no concept of who I am beyond the walls that I have meticulously built as my version of fight in the fight or flight situation that is life and it’s fucking exhausting. I want an identity. I don’t know how to make one. I’m called a loner because I am one and that’s my fault I don’t know how to fix it. I’m vibrating with these revelations. I never understood my mother leaving so much until I joined the army and now I understand I understand so fucking much I can’t do this I itch constantly the repetition is too fucking much it’s fucking suffocating. I want to run I don’t want anyone to know my name I want to be a suggestion the wind I want to be a thought not a reality. I want to float. I can’t close my fucking mouth when I need to and I can’t open  my fucking mouth when I need to. I don’t know how to fix that. It’s only a matter of time until I fuck up too bad to lie my way out. I won’t know how to fix that. I know how to lie to soften the blow. It’s my only real talent everything else I do is subpar. Lying just enough, being just honest enough, to create that sweet balance to fool everyone. Never show your whole hand. Only enough, only enough, only enough. Honesty kills it kills you it gives people a way to kill you. People only want real people when those real people are being just fake enough. People who want real people wouldn’t like a real real person. They would be offended. They would be at a loss. We’re all fake people. We haven’t been real people since we were one with the stars. I wish I was the kind of crazy where I believed in God. Fuck would that make life easier. I’m not that kind of crazy I want to think I'm not crazy at all I just hurt people and I know I do but I can’t stop I can’t care enough to stop I can’t slow down enough to stop I can’t speed enough to stop. I can only hope that those people leave before I hurt them. I don’t know how to fix that. You can’t fix that. You can’t fix crazy, or maybe you can, but I'm not crazy I hate that word I'm just off I'm just a little bit to the left like I said. I drink too much coffee and shake myself to an alright state because I’m too young to drink myself to death, and fuck if I could, you know 21 is my last birthday. I don’t know how to avoid that. I ACHE TO BE A CRY BABY BECAUSE AT LEAST THEN IT WOULD MEAN I FEEL EMOTIONS STRONGER THAN THIS SOMETHING ELSE BUT ANGER OR THE VIBRATIONS IN MY BONES. I’m sitting here in the mess hall acting like I hate everyone but really I just want someone to sit down across from me even though I’ll just tell them to fuck off. I’m that lonely. I can’t help it. I lost my point a long time ago but I feel the gist must be that I’m too far to the left I’m too unstable I shake too much to hold any sort of commitment and I really am just kidding myself chasing this dream because I know deep in my heart that I’m going to fuck this whole thing up I’m not good enough for it to work and I’ll finally be the failure I was destined to be because I’m not my brother, I’m me, and me is the one that doesn’t matter, the one that’s ‘different’ or something, I’m not smart enough he was right they were all right. I don’t know how to fix that. It’s only a matter of time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Occhio Fino' is like the slightly watered down more childish/socially acceptable way of saying an Italian derogatory term for gay, finocchio, which to my very limited knowledge is like equivalent to f*gg*t. dk why i felt led to censor the english word and not the italian.  
> anyways i know it seems real happy right now. it is. i don't have a but. let them be happy and dumb. not like john wells ever will.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear to god the plot will start to make more sense soon lmao

Mickey spends the entire car ride home wondering if their sleeping situation has suddenly changed. They get past the moment, walking into their shared house, where they probably would have kissed and parted ways to breathe, to go back to their own spaces, but instead they walk in together and every move feels uncomfortable, like neither of them are sure what’s supposed to happen next, now that the line has been stepped over. Mickey lets Ian shower first, sitting on his bed and chewing his lip in thought for the first two minutes the other boy is gone, until Mandy pops her head in the doorway and smirks.

“The fuck do you want?” Mickey grumbles, looking anywhere but his sister.

“How was your  _ date _ ?” Mandy asks, taking a step further into the room.   
“Fuck off,” is Mickey’s response.

“So it went well, then?”

Mickey just shrugs.

It went better than he could have ever imagined. In fact, the extent of his imagination was Ian scoffing at his meager attempt at a date and giving up entirely.

Movie magic moments just don’t happen to Milkovich’s. 

But  _ fuck,  _ that kiss. Everything that proceeded, sure, shit, but that first kiss was fucking art. He felt like it was happening to someone else, like he was just watching it, living vicariously through a situation that he would never experience. But it happened to  _ him. _

He must be smiling like an idiot in some way or another, because Mandy drops down next to him on the bed and kicks him in the leg lightly.

“You fucked, didn’t you?” she asks suddenly with a smug smile.

Mickey snaps out of his reverie to throw her a scowl. “The fuck--Mandy!”

“You did!” Mandy laughs out. 

“No,” Mickey refutes, loudly to counteract his sister’s laughter. “We didn’t. Fuck off.” 

“You  _ definitely  _ have sex hair,” Mandy notes, reaching out to ruffle Mickey’s hair for emphasis. 

“You really wanna spend the rest of your night talking about my sex life?” Mickey retorts, slapping her hand away.

“So you  _ admit  _ you had sex?” Mandy accuses.

“No, I--do you really want a fuckin’ play-by-play? You really wanna hear about my hand down his--”

“Okay,  _ alright _ , point taken,” Mandy cuts him off in a rush, waving her hands frantically. “I don’t want to hear your gay shit.”

“ _ You’re  _ the one who wanted to talk about his dick against--”

“ _ Shut up, Mickey. _ ”

Mickey laughs with a self-satisfied smile and leans down to untie his shoes, suddenly very ready to get clean and go the fuck to sleep.

Fuck, he’s exhausted. But in the good way, the  _ this-was-a-productive-day  _ way.

“How’d a dick up your ass feel?”

The sound of his brother’s voice instantly curdles anything that’s left of his good mood, and he looks up to find Iggy grinning wolfishly in the doorway.

“Fuck off, Iggy,” Mickey answers, in a half-groan.

“Somethin’ must feel good about it, if everyone’s so into it,” Iggy continues with a wicked smile.

“I didn’t, at any point tonight, have a dick up my ass,” Mickey explains with an impatient tone. 

“Right. Then I’ll ask your boyfriend, if he’s the one taking it,” Iggy shrugs.

“He didn’t have--why are you people so obsessed with the intricacies of two dudes banging, huh? Don’t get enough yourselves, you gotta try and feed off mine?”

Iggy blinks at him blankly, his smile dissolving. “Hold up. Wait, are you actually banging him?”

Mickey squints at him. “Huh?”

His crush on Ian has been old news for days. The limited flow of information from their home to prison doesn’t even register in his brain.

“You’re a homo?” Iggy asks, disbelief creeping into his expression.

“Uh, yeah, I think we’ve fuckin’ established that,” Mickey answers sharply.

The precise moment that Mickey realizes that Iggy is teasing him about Ian because he still thinks Mickey is  _ straight  _ is punctuated by Ian’s emergence from the shower, clad in a pair of sweatpants and nothing else, rubbing his hair with a towel.

God must have, at some point, made it his own personal mission to punish Mickey on Earth as much as he could until he inevitably dies and goes to the deepest, most horrific level of hell. 

Ian freezes in the doorway, with the realization that all three siblings are staring at him with differing levels of guilt.

“Am I...interrupting...something?” he asks, taking a small step back, like he’s ready to bolt.

There’s a long silence, in which Mickey is mortified, Iggy looks like someone spit in his face, and Ian looks terrified.

It’s Mandy that finally breaks the stupor.

“I mean, Ig...is it really that surprising?” she says with a soft laugh.

“Excuse me?” Mickey inquires incredulously.

Mandy rolls her eyes. “You think Ian’s the first thing that made me notice, Mick?” When Mickey just stares at her, she blows her bangs from her forehead and leans forward, elbows on her knees, like she’s about to tell a precious secret. “I hate to break this to you, Mickey, but you’re painfully gay.” 

“The fuck do you mean?”

Mandy looks up at Ian with something that might be exasperation, and then over at Iggy, and then finally back to Mickey. “Chris O’Donovan, sophomore year.”

Mickey remembers him. A lanky kid with nice hair and big eyes that had dated Mandy for about three months and would walk around their house shirtless. Constantly. 

“What about him?”

“You had a crush on him.”

Mickey blanches, and catches Ian suppressing a smile. “I fuckin’ did not.”

Mandy ignores him, choosing to go on with her story. “You would always laugh at his jokes, you always wanted to hang out with us, you would never get hints that we wanted to be alone, you would eye-fuck him when you thought no one was looking, and I’m pretty sure he broke up with me because he didn’t wanna deal with your gay ass anymore.”

“I mean,” Iggy speaks up, crossing his arms, “you were  _ really  _ obsessed with hanging out with Troy back in the day--”

“ _ Alright _ , ok, we’re all aware of how gay I am now, we’re on the same fuckin’ page. Can you all get the fuck outta my room?” Mickey orders, loud enough to cut his brother off. His siblings laugh, but Mandy pushes off the bed and Iggy turns to the door. Ian steps inside to let them through, and then shuts the door behind them.

Mickey huffs out a breath and falls, backwards, against his bed. “Does this whole coming out thing ever fuckin’ stop?”

“Not really,” Ian says, a sympathetic tone gracing the edges of his voice. “It does slow down, though. Eventually.” 

Mickey huffs out a breath, and spends a few more seconds staring at the ceiling pointedly before he resigns himself to a shower.

* * *

_ January 9th, ‘16 _

_ My feet feel a little heavy lately. _

_ I’ve been banging this one guy on the regular, because he’s always down, but I think he’s starting to get attached. I won’t stop, though. It’s not my fault he’s dumb enough to fall in love with a quick fuck. It’s not like I’m being dishonest with him. I don’t know his first name, it’s just Trice. I guess I’m just Gallagher. I’m kind of glad no one calls me Lip. I don’t know if I could respond fast enough to make it believable. _

_ The fact that no one’s caught on to the fact that I stole my brother’s identity really puts a big emphasis on the fact that we’re just numbers. Just shifting numbers in some building in Washington. Preparing to fight a war we didn’t have to start. _

_ It’s funny, but the one thing we don’t talk about here is the war. We just don’t talk about it. Why the fuck don’t we talk about it? Shouldn’t that be all we talk about? _

_ I think everyone here is running from something. We don’t give a shit about justice or America. _

_ I wanted to be a hero at one point. I didn’t want it to be like this.  _

_ Fuck, man. When? When did my feet get so goddamn heavy? _

* * *

By the time Mickey returns to his room, Ian’s already curled up in his bed, eyelashes translucent against his cheek and breathing slow. The dim light spilling in from the hallway softens his features and he looks young, in a different way than being a teenager on his own; he looks gentle, innocent, like the world could pass him by and he wouldn’t notice. Of course, in the back of his mind, Mickey knows that it’s just an illusion, that Ian knows better than most how unforgiving the world is. But it still tugs at his heart, to see something so porcelain perfect in his chronically dingy atmosphere.

Mickey decides the floor might be a better idea. Enough has happened today.

* * *

The next morning is quiet. Easy. Perfect. Mickey and Ian seem to wake at the same time, around 8 am, and everyone else has already parted ways and left the house. Ian makes eggs, Mickey pours coffee. Something about it feels so fragile, but so comfortable. Too comfortable. Like they’re leaning too heavily on something not made to support their full weight, something bound to snap.

Mickey doesn’t give a fuck. He’s too busy spinning Ian around and kissing him into the counter while the eggs sizzle behind him.

Mickey thinks he may have made a huge mistake; now that he’s kissed Ian like he did last night, he’s never going to be able to stop. He feels it in the way his skin burns when Ian wraps his arms around his bare neck. He feels it in the way his head swims when he presses up on his toes to be  _ that much closer _ . He feels it in the way he grips Ian’s waist, meticulous in the way he eliminates any space between them. 

If Ian leaves, Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck he’ll do. When the other shoe drops, and Mickey’s left on his own again, he has no idea how he’ll cope without this.

Mickey kisses him in between everything. Or, more accurately, Mickey does the things he needs to do in between kissing Ian.

Mickey kisses Ian after he finishes his coffee. Ian kisses Mickey when they both place their plates in the sink. Mickey kisses Ian after he gets out of the shower, and Ian kisses Mickey right before he gets in. Mickey spends the time that he should be doing something productive and grown-up, like maybe vacuuming or watching the news, kissing Ian.

Mickey only suspects he has a problem when kissing Ian makes him late to work that day. Not even accidentally; he chooses to stay home an extra ten minutes, with complete awareness of the time.

They had been sort of watching a rerun of Chopped. An episode Mickey had already seen and Ian apparently was not very invested in. It’s really fucking hard to care about the time when you’ve got Ian Gallagher sliding his hand down your pants.

It seems stupid, and lovesick, and disgusting, and it is, but Mickey couldn’t give two shits. Kissing has never made him feel this way; it’s always been cold and obligatory. He feels like a 13 year old kid that’s just discovered what jerking off is.

Alright. Maybe that’s a shitty analogy.

Regardless, he’s confident that the novelty will wear off. At least, he hopes it does. If it doesn’t, if it keeps feeling like this, keeps being this easy and  _ necessary _ , he knows he’s fucked. He’ll never get anything done again.

When Ian kisses him goodbye when he leaves for work, Mickey has to fight to keep himself from extending his lateness another ten minutes.

* * *

Life practically floats along for the next two weeks. He doesn’t see a lot of Ian, with their mismatched schedules, but the bits and pieces he gets are bliss. Kisses on the cheek when either of them leave for work (though Mandy gets one from Ian too, if she’s there, much to Mickey’s jealousy), their whispered conversations when Ian finally stumbles into Mickey’s room after his shift, lulling both of them to sleep (or as lulled as Mickey can feel after moving from his bed to the floor--neither of them have made a move to change their sleeping arrangements). A few (okay, maybe a  _sizable_  few) very intense and simultaneously frustrating make out sessions they had needed to put on hold when all three of Mickey’s siblings  _ and  _ Mickey’s boss had almost walked in on them, all on separate occasions. (There was that time on the couch, when they had been settling a dispute over the validity of Mickey’s victory in Mario Kart, then the day that Ian chose to walk into the room shirtless when nobody else was home, then the time that he came to visit Mickey on his lunch break and they had ended up in the back alley, then the time that Mickey noticed that Ian was  _ definitely  _ wearing one of  _ his  _ favorite shirts…)

Sometimes Ian just looks pretty. What the fuck is stopping Mickey, anyway?

There’s still something unspoken between them, though, that they aren’t a couple. That they aren’t going to make any public announcement. That they’ll let people think what they want, but they are what they are.

Mickey’s fine with that. The fact that Ian is, essentially, all over him every chance he gets doesn’t really allow him to be dissatisfied with their relationship. Or non-relationship.

And his family doesn’t care, he gets that, but there’s just something about the openness that he isn’t ready for. Private is private. He can be comfortable with himself here. With Ian. With his family. Not out there, where there’s too much bullshit for it to be cut and dry. He doesn’t want the watery smiles. He just doesn’t think he could make it through his first conversation where it’s clear the person is  _ not  _ alright with his sexuality. Not that  _ his  _ feelings would be hurt. More like the other person might need to call an ambulance ahead of time if they want to survive.

It’s unseasonably cold Friday night when Ian invites him back to the club. Mickey’s surprised that he isn’t permanently barred (he suspects Ian might have had to pull some strings for Mickey’s outburst against Mark or Marshall or Methuselah to dissipate so easily).

If he’s honest with himself, he’s been dreading when Ian asks him to hang out at the club again, since they’ve become sort-of-not-really-in-some-small-way together. The thought of Ian looking at someone else the same way he looks at Mickey these days, and actually seeing it, are two different things. And even just the  _ thought _ makes Mickey’s blood simmer.

He accepts the invitation anyway, because Ian looks at him in a certain way that makes it practically impossible for him to say no, and he sends a prayer skyward that he doesn’t kill someone that night.

He’s back at the bar before he knows it, sipping noncommittally on a glass of Jack and stealing glances at Ian. And  _ fuck _ , is Ian something to look at. Mickey feels like if he stares at the other boy for too long his head might start to hurt.

The club must have committed loosely to an army theme that night, because Ian (and probably the other dancers, too, but who could look at them when Ian...exists?) is dressed in camo cut-offs and nothing else.

He spends an hour gruffly deflecting the propositions he receives from the shifting clientele and people-watching to keep from paying attention to whatever asshole is ogling Ian.

He’s on his third glass of whiskey, which he thinks the bartender is watering down, when he notices a familiar face.

Mr. Salt and Pepper Business Professional leans against the podium that Ian is dancing on, grinning up at him wickedly and sipping from a glass (probably filled with some pussy shit, like Peach Schnapps or fucking gin and tonic). Mickey takes in one shaky breath in an attempt to stomp out the burn in his chest when the man extends a hand to Ian, helping him down from the stage, and hands him a thick wad of money. Mickey watches as Ian thumbs through it, smiles, and then pulls the man by the wrist to the back of the club, disappearing into a door.

Mickey’s hand freezes, glass halfway to his lips, when the door shuts resolutely.

“Hey,” he says to the bartender, who cocks an eyebrow at him. “Where does that door go?”

The bartender follows his finger and hitches a smirk. “Private dance room.”

“Private  _ what _ room?”

The bartender gestures around the club. “You see one you like, you pay big bucks, you get some time alone.”

“You mean that’s where dancers go to fuck for money,” Mickey clarifies incredulously.

The bartender shrugs, picking up a glass and cleaning it lazily. “Technically against the rules to fuck, but…” He raises his eyebrows, like that explains the rest.

_ Oh,  _ hell  _ no. _

Mickey itches to stride right across the room, into that door, and beat Salt and Pepper to a pulp. He  _ knows  _ he can’t just sit here and do nothing. But interfering with Ian’s job would look crazy, right? Right? He doesn’t want to look crazy.

Still, the thought of the man with his hands all over the kid that Mickey has already staked a silent claim on leaves him desperate to break something. 

A guy slides next to him with a wolfish grin and offers to buy him another drink.

“I’ve got a boyfriend,” Mickey lies, mumbling into his glass.

The guy shrugs, a movement Mickey catches in his periphery. He hasn’t even looked at the guy yet.

“So do I,” he says. “What’s it matter?”

Mickey turns to look at him, really look at him, greeted by dark skin, pretty lips, almond eyes, and finds he doesn’t hate what he sees. He doesn’t  _ love  _ it, but he thinks maybe it’s because he’s still got a nasty case of tunnel vision for a certain someone else.

A certain someone else  _ maybe _ currently fucking a rich guy for money.

They aren’t in a relationship, Mickey reminds himself. They aren’t. Mickey wonders why he still feels like fucking someone else would break something fragile, stop any progression and keep them floating in dead, lukewarm space for eternity.

But, what the fuck? Why is Ian so fucking free to do whatever the fuck while Mickey sits here like some pining asshole? If there’s one thing Mickey can’t stand, it’s being unfairly matched in a fight.

It’s at this moment that Mickey gets angry. He’s not sure what he’s angry at: Ian, the situation, Salt and Pepper, the guy sitting next to him, the fucking bartender, he’s angry at somebody or something, which, in hindsight, is probably the sole motive for his next decision.

“Fine.”

He says it after downing the rest of his whiskey ( _ definitely  _ watered down, he realizes, now that he’s consuming it this quickly) and wiping a hand across his mouth. The guy stares at him for a second, open-mouthed, exhilarated, and then he snaps his jaw closed and nods eagerly.

_ Jesus. _

Mickey follows him through the club, ripping his arm away when the guy attempts to lead him by the wrist (maybe in an attempt to be sexy, but it just feels patronizing), and he swallows down the guilt already starting to form in his throat.

* * *

_ January 19th, ‘16 _

_ A lot has happened but this is the first time I’ve felt good enough to write it all out. _

_ I guess I should start with the biggest thing. I was kicked out. I know it seems sudden and kind of too simplistic to say it like that, after not writing anything for so long, but that’s just the truth of it. They told me they don’t care where I go, but I can’t be in the army. _

_ You know why? Because they think I’m crazy. And I’m starting to wonder if maybe they’re right. _

_ I got into a big fight with the guy I was fucking, Trice, because he was getting clingy as hell and I felt weird. But it escalated. I tried to choke him. _

_ I don’t know what came over me, and I feel like such an asshole whenever I think about it. He just liked me. And now I’m that guy who tried to kill him just for wanting to be my friend. What the fuck? _

_ That wasn’t the part that got me thrown out, though. Fights like that happen all the time. _

_ The day after the fight, I couldn’t open my eyes. I tried, at the bugle call, I knew that I needed to wake up, but they just wouldn’t open. My limbs wouldn’t move. Like all the heaviness that had been pooling in my feet, it’s like it spread overnight into my whole body, into my mind, and I just could not get myself up. I couldn’t. Even when the sergeant came around to yell at me to get my ass out of bed, it was like his voice was underwater, and no matter what he said, I couldn’t get up. _

_ It was terrifying. I was terrified. My fear petrified me, too.  _

_ He dragged me out of bed. Like, literally, pulled me up by my elbow and dragged me out but I couldn’t move my feet, all I could do is stand there in my boxers while everybody stared. I think it took about 15 minutes more of screaming before my unresponsiveness breached insubordinate and became concerning.  _

_ It was all a blur. There was nobody to help me, hold my hand through things. I couldn’t get dressed, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t shower, I couldn’t do shit, and even though it was this awful numb heaviness that was incapacitating me, the strongest emotion I felt was rage, just intense frustration towards myself. Because these simple things, these simple fucking things, I just couldn’t make myself do, even with someone screaming in my face to do them. _

_ A psychiatrist came into the barracks and she was softer than my sergeant, obviously, but I still couldn’t do anything. She just seemed to observe me, then she asked me questions about why I joined the army, and I couldn’t really answer her very well. It took a while, but I guess she got what she needed, and then she disappeared for a while, and it was just silence. _

_ I was surprised that they left me alone and didn’t make me get up and get dressed. I didn’t think the army’s rigid tempo of march forward, march forward, march forward would allow for a discrepancy like that, but it did, they let me lay there, they let me drift in between sleep and fear. _

_ The woman came back and told me I’m probably bipolar. She told me they don’t want to have to pay for my treatment. They told me that I have to leave as soon as possible. _

_ They were kind enough to give me a bed in the small medical center, until I could get on my feet again. _

_ But the minute I was able to get up and moving, maybe four days later (which the woman said was impressive, for my first depressive episode), they suggested I see a doctor and kicked me out with what little things I had. _

_ So now I’m somewhere in buttfuck Western Indiana with no fucking clue what to do. I’ve been sleeping under the bridge, and they let me keep my army issued winter coat (which I bet is against the rules but everyone seemed to stop treating me like a number and more like a scared kid when word of my diagnosis got around) but it’s still fucking freezing at night. I don’t have any money, though, and I don’t even know where I’d begin to make any. _

_ I’ve got to eat at some point. _

_ I’m terrified that one morning I’m going to wake up and feel that way again. Like I can’t wake up. I’m terrified that I’ll freeze to death because I won’t be able to care enough to get moving.  _

_ I can’t apply that word they tacked onto me to myself yet. I can’t be bipolar. Monica was bipolar and I’m not Monica crazy. I’m not jumping from a roof to see if I can fly, slitting my wrists on Thanksgiving crazy. I’m not getting high on angel dust and fucking my husband’s brother crazy. I’m not. _

_ But I can’t stop thinking about the parallels. The running from your problems. The days spent in bed. The stretches being nothing but productive. _

_ I just can’t see myself compared with her. We’re entirely different. How can we share something like that if we’re so fucking different? _

_ I’m not crazy, I’m not Monica. I had to leave. I had to run, to save my life. The army was something I wanted. It wasn’t an impulse, it was survival. _

_ That’s what I need right now. To survive. _

* * *

Everything about the guy feels wrong. Mickey doesn’t even kiss him. Of course he doesn’t. Ian’s already ruined that.

Everything else feels off, anyway. His mouth is too wet on Mickey’s throat, his hand are too light on his waist, and too rough on his cock. He’s too short, almost shorter than Mickey, and his breath is too hot. They jerk each other off in the back alley, and Mickey focuses all of his anger into the activity, but he doesn’t feel any better after the unremarkable orgasm that results. 

Mickey doesn’t say a word to him afterwards, buckling himself up and pushing back into the club without a single glance over his shoulder.

He doesn’t anticipate slamming face first into Ian when he makes his not-so-grand reentrance.

Ian beams at him, and Mickey notices that he’s pulled on some clothes. Probably headed outside for a cigarette. Mickey’s stomach turns.

“You wanna smoke?” Ian calls over the too-loud music. 

Right now, Mickey craves nothing but a smoke. “The fuck do you think I was doin’ out there?” he snaps instead.

Ian raises his eyebrows at his hostile tone. “You turnin’ down a free cigarette?”

Mickey stares at him for a few seconds, simultaneously wanting nothing more than to be far, far away from him and wanting to be with him, right by his side, for the rest of the night, to be sure he’s not with anybody else.

Though, he feels he’s kind of rescinded any rights he had to that sort of dictation about five fucking minutes ago.

“Yeah, alright. Let’s go.”

The guy isn’t out there anymore, seemingly bored with the scene after the quick not-even-fuck, and Mickey lets out a breath of relief.

Ian pulls a box of Marlboro Reds from his coat pocket and hands one to Mickey, taking a second for himself.

For some reason, it doesn’t surprise Mickey that Ian and he smoke the same cigarettes.

They say something, that the first brand you smoke is the brand you stick with. Maybe there are slight variations in that generalization, but it’s, at the very least, true for Mickey. 

He remembers his first cigarette. When he was 11, right around when one of his mom’s nicer boyfriends had left without a word, he just walked outside and sat on their front step, and then Joey had joined him and lit a cigarette and offered it to him silently, and he had tried it and he didn’t cough and he didn’t hate it but he didn’t understand it yet, either. It was a Marlboro Red. Mickey thinks he’s tried a different brand twice; he’s tried Camel and he’s tried Newport, but it’s always just been Marlboro to him. That’s what smoking is, that’s what it tastes like and smells like and feels like. Anything else feels like a cheap imitation, a mandatory method of consuming nicotine.

Mickey thinks maybe it’s the same with people. In fact, he’s sure of it, as he watches Ian balance a cigarette between two fingers and exhale a gentle wave of smoke. He’s ruined now, by red hair and green eyes. He’s ruined. Marlboro ruined Camels, ruined Newports. Ian’s ruined the other 7 billion people on the planet.

Just a cheap imitation. Mandatory.

“You alright?” Ian asks him, voice strained with smoke.

Mickey chews his lip, and chooses his next words very carefully.

“What did your stalker need?” he asks.

Ian laughs. “Sucker paid me $300 for a ten minute dance. I didn’t even suck him off. He didn’t even ask me to.” Ian flicks ash from his cigarette. “Not complaining, though.”

Mickey’s stomach drops.

_ I’m so fucking stupid. _

Ian didn’t even fuck the man, and Mickey had gone and jerked off another guy out of spite. Spite for what? Ian? Ian, who didn’t even fucking  _ do  _ anything but fill his job’s basic requirements.

He could just bottle this up, just not tell Ian, but what the fuck kind of relationship is that? Fuck relationship, what kind of  _ friendship  _ is that? 

Just be honest, he tells himself.

He sucks in some smoke.

“I slept with someone tonight. Sort of.” Exhales.

Ian blinks at him a couple times, cigarette freezing halfway to his lips. “Yeah?” Ian’s voice is small, but not shaky. Soft but strong.

“Yeah.”

Ian leans back against the wall behind him and takes a deep drag. For a while, Mickey’s scared he isn’t going to say anything else. That he’s just going to let it hang there. They stand, Ian looking at the ground thoughtfully, Mickey looking anywhere but Ian. They smoke. Mickey waits. It’s not his turn to say anything.

“Alright,” Ian finally says, flicking away his cigarette and pushing away from the wall. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Alright?”

“Alright, we can be open,” Ian elaborates with a small smile. 

Mickey’s eyebrows draw together.

_ Wait. _

“Actually--”

“I was meaning to talk to you about that, anyway. I think it would be a good idea, you know? For now.”

“Ian--”

“Really, Mick, it’s okay, you don’t have to apologize. We can sleep with other people.” Ian smiles kindly at him and steps forward, quelling any further argument by cupping Mickey’s face in his hands and punctuating his statement with a soft kiss. Mickey hates that he immediately relaxes into it, hates that he can’t pull away even though right now he feels like he’s drowning. 

Ian doesn’t remove his hand from Mickey’s cheek when he pulls back. “It’s  _ alright _ ,” he repeats. “I feel like we’re moving too fast, anyway.”

Mickey’s mind is moving like fucking molasses, he can’t seem to form the words to say  _ No, I only want you. _

_ Fuck. Shit. FUCK. _

Mickey wants to grab onto Ian and shake him and yell until he understands something, anything, that he doesn’t want to see other people, that he only wants Ian and Ian should only want him. But he can’t. He can’t, because that would mean that he cares too much, too fast. Because that would throw them explicitly off balance again. He can’t, because Ian does want other people, apparently. Because Mickey isn’t enough for him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“I have to get back and finish my shift,” Ian tells him, pulling his hand from Mickey’s skin. “We’ll talk about rules and stuff when I get done, alright?”

_ No. Not alright. How about the only rule is that we don’t fuck other people? _

Mickey nods, and tries not to look like he’s about to fucking cry. “Alright.”

Ian presses another chaste kiss to Mickey’s lips, and Mickey grips at Ian’s jacket like he’s about to evaporate, and then the other boy is gone, back into the club, leaving Mickey in the alley, trying not to shake himself into a panic.

_ Why. Why. Why. Why? _

* * *

Mickey wants to go home without Ian, right after he says he wants to be with other people, but he doesn’t. Somehow he thinks the not knowing would be worse than watching Ian go home with somebody else.

Mickey almost wishes that Ian  _ would _ go home with somebody else so that he doesn’t have to talk to him again, with that dry feeling in the back of his throat and the way his hands are shaking, ever so slightly.

He doesn’t understand why Ian is so intent on taking it slow with Mickey when he, apparently, wants to fuck the majority of the gay population of the mid-East Coast. Mickey can’t tell if it’s because Ian pities him, or because he doesn’t want to fuck up living at the Milkovich house or (and Mickey doesn’t even let himself dwell on this possibility for fear of getting his hopes up) if Ian thinks Mickey is something  _ special _ . He can’t really decide which is the worst scenario. 

On that walk home, though, they do establish rules. Simple ones, logical ones. 

No bringing people back to the house. No staying over. 100% honesty.

They’re more for Ian than they are for Mickey. 

If Mickey does  _ anything  _ with another person again, he thinks he might vomit. He doesn’t say that. He just lets Ian believe they’re evenly matched.

Then, Ian reaches down and laces their fingers together, during the silence between the end of their conversation and their arrival home, and Mickey honest to God feels like he can’t fucking breathe.

That night he scrubs so hard at his skin in the shower that he briefly turns pink. How the fuck did it go so bad so quick? Half a damn month and shit’s complicated.

Mickey can only blame himself. Maybe, if he hadn’t gone and fucked himself over out of blind anger, waited and asked Ian about what happened with the guy, maybe they could have stayed in their bliss, just bloomed quietly into something more.

But Mickey could never just do anything fucking normally, could he? No, he has to go and make it worse. He couldn’t even work up the strength to interject,  _ no _ ,  _ not alright, this isn’t alright, stop saying alright. _

_ Fuck.  _

Ian’s already asleep when Mickey steps out of the shower, but Mickey knows he won’t be getting an ounce of rest that night. He wanders out to the living room, instead, turning on the television and watching some grainy infomercial with bleary vision. He hardly notices when the couch dips next to him, and he’s even more surprised when he looks over to find it isn’t Mandy, or Ian, but Iggy.

“You look like someone pissed in your drink tonight,” Iggy opens, throwing an elbow over the back of the couch and turning to face Mickey.

Mickey only grunts in response.

“Trouble in paradise?” Iggy asks. Mickey blinks at the television. A woman is raving about a bland looking bracelet, with gems that are maybe diamonds, but probably not.

“I think...I fucked up,” Mickey finally says, tentatively. He can’t think of a single time he’s had a conversation like this with Iggy; he’s closest with Mandy, the whole family knows it, so the rest of them had never really  _ bothered  _ before. Maybe prison had made Iggy appreciate the sentiment more. Who fucking knows?

“I coulda guessed that.” Iggy laughs when Mickey throws him a dirty look. “Fucked up how?”

Mickey bites down on his lip, squinting at the screen in front of him. The woman pours some sort of clear solution on the bracelet, and two other women clap when nothing happens.

“You ever been in like...an open relationship, before?” he finally forces out.

Iggy blinks slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”

Mickey shifts a bit, crossing his ankles. “So how the fuck do you  _ do  _ it?”

Iggy stares at him steadily, and Mickey feels like he might squirm under the scrutiny. It takes him a moment to realize that Iggy is acting so sober because he’s...well,  _ sober _ . First week probation paranoia, probably. Mickey doesn’t think he’s interacted with Iggy when the guy wasn’t high out of his mind since he was maybe  _ nine _ . 

“You mean, how do you let the other person fuck around without killing somebody?” Iggy asks after a moment.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Mickey mumbles in response. Apparently, the bracelet comes in four colors. They all look the fucking same to Mickey.

Iggy rubs at his bottom lip, and Mickey wonders if that’s a family trait. Every Milkovich just seems to do it, including himself.

“You know what you do, Mick?” Iggy starts, steadily. “You blow that motherfucker’s mind.”

Mickey scoffs. “Huh?”

Iggy’s eyebrows shoot up. “He wants to bang other people. You don’t. So bang  _ him _ until he can’t even get it  _ up _ for other people.”

Mickey’s expression wrinkles in disgust at Iggy’s bluntness, but he considers the suggestion, and can’t actually find a flaw in the logic.

The bracelets are $59.99 plus shipping and handling. Mickey absently thinks that’s ridiculous. He wouldn’t even steal that bracelet if he saw it lying around. 

“Why the fuck are you still sitting here?” Iggy asks. Mickey turns to him in surprise. “What the fuck did I just tell you to do?”

Mickey glances at the television clock. “Iggy, it’s one in the morning.”

“Right. So, better get a move on before it gets later, right?”

“Won’t it be kind of...fucked? Fucking right after he says he wants to sleep with other people?” Mickey worries.

Iggy sighs in exasperation. “That’s the  _ best  _ time to do it. Subliminal message. Show him you’re not some wounded, jealous bitch.”

Mickey, admittedly, feels both wounded  _ and  _ jealous, but he has to confess that not revealing those emotions sounds extremely appealing.

The screen with the phone number for the bracelets has been up for two straight fucking minutes. Mickey stands with new purpose. He turns without another word towards his bedroom, but he’s stopped by the sound of Iggy’s voice.

“And, Mick?” 

“Hm?”

“Please never make me talk about gay sex with you again.”

Mickey barks out a laugh. “Yeah, okay. That’s fair. Asshole.”

His room is dark when he cracks the door open, slipping inside, and Ian is sprawled on his back in the bed, shirt off, head tilted to the side.

Mickey’s chest is a fucking hurricane. His heart bangs like thunder and so many emotions whip through his being that he’s sure he’s going to fucking blow away. His feet can’t still be on the ground.

_ Fuck,  _ he’s angry. But not angry in the way he was earlier tonight, or the way he’s been when he’s lost control and made someone bleed.  _ This?  _ This is an anger he’s never felt before. Something more sickening but exhilarating. Maybe it’s not actually anger, maybe it’s something else, something worse and more simple.

Toxic need. He’s like a brand new addict, crawling back to his vice after his first case of self-destruction. 

Something about it feels like he’s losing a war when he crawls over to Ian and straddles his hips, tracing his thumb over the sleeping boy’s bottom lip.

Ian opens his eyes and Mickey is fucking stuck.

Stuck between two polar emotions, wanting to ignore Ian until he wants the same things that Mickey wants, and needing to sink his teeth into Ian’s skin to show Ian why he should  _ only  _ need Mickey. 

The latter quickly wins out.

Ian opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but Mickey doesn’t give him the chance, dropping down to catch his lips roughly.

There’s nothing gentle about this kiss, nothing exploring or tentative like the first time. It isn’t playful, either, not completely comfortable like it had been for weeks.

It’s possessive, and bruising, and the smallest bit angry, and Mickey’s sure that it says everything that Mickey refuses to say.

_ Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. _

And yeah,  _ fuck _ Ian for waltzing into Mickey’s life like he’s been there all along, just sliding in perfectly, not even giving Mickey time to feel uncomfortable, to adjust. Fuck Ian for clicking. Fuck Ian for integrating. Fuck Ian for becoming essential.

And  _ fuck  _ Ian for the way he makes Mickey feel like he can breathe easier when he’s around. Fuck him, because that just means, when he leaves (and he will), Mickey will feel like he’s drowning.

Ian has to feel what the kiss means. What it screams. But he doesn’t shy away, he doesn’t cower. He doesn’t even take time to wake up. He presses forward, he slips a hand into Mickey’s hair and  _ tugs _ , hard enough that it almost hurts. And Mickey can almost feel the same rhythm in Ian’s lips, too, in his breath, the way it quickens just a little bit.

_ No, fuck you.  _

What for? Mickey has no idea, but there’s a second, a brief flash in his mind, that wonders if this whole ‘open relationship’ is what Ian wants at all. His brain tries to sink its teeth into that idea, to get Mickey’s hopes up that maybe Ian had just said that because he was pissed that Mickey had gone and fucked someone else, that he doesn’t really plan on following through at all, that he’s just as silently irate and sick over the idea as Mickey is. But Mickey shoves the thought aside, refusing to put any faith in his own ability to matter that much to someone else, and instead he attaches his lips unceremoniously to Ian’s neck, sucking a mark into the skin there with intense purpose. 

_ Fuck you, you’re mine. _

Mickey doesn’t realize that two words have tacked themselves onto the driving thought until it’s run through his mind four or five times. 

_ Fuck you. You’re mine. _

He flushes when he comprehends it, but it spurs him on, and he finds himself taking his time, biting skin here and there; under Ian’s jaw, the shell of his ear, across his chest, the tops of his shoulders. Mickey pulls the sheets away from Ian’s form as he travels down, pressing his lips lightly to Ian’s stomach, leaving a trail of pale pink marks as he goes. 

The club probably has some bullshit rule about hickeys, because it breaks the illusion, it reminds the patrons that the dancers are  _ human.  _

Somehow, the thought of Salt and Pepper seeing the purple marks on Ian’s skin, left by Mickey’s mouth, only encourages him more.

Mickey tugs at Ian’s boxers the slightest bit, keening at the way Ian’s pulling lightly at his hair, and he trails his tongue across the dip of Ian’s hipbone, biting gently at the highest point.

“I’m gonna suck you off,” he mumbles into Ian’s skin, pulling insistently on the boxers still covering the other boy. Ian lifts his hips to accommodate Mickey’s intentions, and Mickey yanks them down, finally freeing Ian’s erection.

And holy  _ fuck _ . 

He almost feels dizzy by how hard he gets, all at once.

He looks up at Ian, and their gazes lock just as Mickey bites down on the other boy’s inner thigh, sucking gently and then smoothing his tongue over the spot, reveling in the sharp gasp Ian emits. 

He’s never  _ given  _ a blowjob, but he’s certainly received a respectable amount. And though they’ve never been the insane, out-of-body experiences that every other guy in his life has raved about, he figures that a few of the girls that had blown him were probably pretty fucking good at it. They just had the misfortune of wasting their talents on a clueless homosexual.

And after all, Mickey is _great_ at pretending he knows exactly what he’s doing when, in fact, he knows fuck all about anything.

He starts slow, taking Ian in hand and licking a slow line from the base to the tip. When Ian shudders out a breath and tightens his fingers in Mickey’s hair, Mickey finds himself feeling braver. He swirls his tongue around the tip (mostly because that seems like something porn stars do) and then he wraps his lips carefully around Ian, lowering slowly and hollowing his cheeks.

_ This is a lot easier than I thought.  _

_ “Fuck,”  _ Ian hisses out when Mickey pulls back off and licks around the tip, quickly taking Ian back into his mouth and venturing further, curious as to how much of Ian he can take. He grips onto Ian’s hips to hold him down, probably squeezing hard enough to leave bruises, the thought bringing him the smallest amount of satisfaction. He bobs his head a few times, finding himself lower down with every pass, until he’s almost reached the base of Ian’s cock, the tip solidly hitting the back of his throat. He swallows around him, producing a breathy moan from the other boy, and Ian is still tugging roughly, desperately at his hair while he pulls back off completely.

_ Why the hell does everyone make this seem like such a hard skill? _

“Mi--” Ian bites off his moan when their eyes meet and Mickey sinks back down around him with no warning, this time taking all of him in one movement.

The way Ian throws his head back seems fucking religious.

Ian’s practically babbling, running his fingers sloppily through Mickey’s hair with one hand and twisting into the sheets with the other. Mickey swallows again, moans around the younger boy’s cock, pressing his tongue firmly to the underside as he agonizes back up, flicking it across the tip and then sinking right back down.

_ “Fuck.  _ Mick-- _ shit.  _ I’m--it’s--”

Ian comes without real warning, the warm, unfamiliar taste filling Mickey’s mouth, calling attention to how painfully hard he still is.

He swallows. He’s not a damn pussy.

Ian pants for a good thirty seconds, eyes locked on the ceiling, until he finally collects himself and looks back at Mickey, who leans forward to press a quick kiss to his lips and smile at him smugly.

“Mickey,  _ fuck _ \--you don’t have a gag reflex.” Ian says it like he’s just discovered the Ark of the goddamned Covenant. Mickey blinks at him, hitching an eyebrow in response, and he thinks he probably looks like a mess, with the way Ian’s fingers have completely fucked up his hair and how wet his lips still feel, but Ian’s staring at him like he’s beautiful. 

Mickey shrugs. He’d vaguely known that; he at least knew that he wasn’t as sensitive to choking as some people, but he’s never really had a reason to find out he has  _ no  _ gag reflex. It’s not like he’s stuck a finger down his throat before. Or a dick, for that matter.

But right now, it’s making him feel extremely fucking self-satisfied. The purpose of sucking Ian’s dick was to remind him who the fuck Mickey is. He thinks maybe he’s accomplished that. For the night, at least. 

Ian pushes him off, and Mickey doesn’t have a second to think before Ian’s got his hand on his belt buckle, quickly shoving his hand into Mickey’s boxers to brusquely grab his dick.

It’s rough and unforgiving and when Ian meets his lips, crashing into him, everything shrinks down to the two of them and the unspoken anger of the night. There’s nothing loving about it, nothing gentle or cliche. It’s fucking brutal.

Mickey thinks he must be in love.

“ _ F-- _ shit,  _ shit,  _ Gallagher.  _ Ian. _ ”

Mickey has his second orgasm of the night, pleasure wracking his body and leaving him slumped to the side, practically lifeless. 

Ian kisses him afterwards, deep and and slow and with satisfaction. Mickey grabs at the boy’s hair, and he thinks, if they keep kissing like this, he might be ready to go again in a matter of minutes. It’s almost pathetic.

It’s unspoken when they pull back and curl next to each other in Mickey’s bed, neither with the intention of moving any time soon.

Sated and floating, Mickey falls asleep with a distant determination in his gut and Ian’s arm slung across his waist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello emotional repression  
> I have had the headcanon that Mickey has no gag reflex since I start watching Shameless. There's literally no reason behind it I just love the damn idea.


	11. Chapter 11

_ January 22nd, ‘16 _

_ I finally ate today. I found a shelter in Chesterton, so I guess I’ll be staying here until I can figure out what to do now. I’ve been homeless before, but it’s always been with my siblings, and we’ve always had at least a van to sleep in. Being homeless AND alone is a whole new level of misery.  _

_ It might seem a little ridiculous that I don’t just go back to Chicago.  _

_ I guess I never really fully explained what even happened. _

_ I have time to kill, and I finally feel ready to write it out. _

_ It started that morning, the morning I ran. I went to school, and I was sick of my friends acting weird with me for no reason. So, I finally caught up with Roz and Marce, and I just asked them outright what the fuck was going on, and Marce just stared at me dead-on, and then walked away. Roz tried to follow her, but I grabbed her and begged her to tell me. _

_ So, she sat me down and we missed the next class while she told me everything. _

_ How Jaq had refused to be in a relationship with her, even though they were basically a couple. Jaq wanted sex, but Marce was a virgin, and wanted it to be special, with someone she was committed to. _

_ Naive, but commendable. _

_ Jaq was patient, waiting for her to change her mind and fuck him anyway. _

_ Homecoming night he had a bit too much to drink. That’s what Roz said, even though he seemed completely sober when he walked me home. I don’t know anymore, though. _

_ He had a bit too much to drink. Marce wouldn’t put out when he cornered her in the bathroom. _

_ Do I really need to spell it out? _

_ Fuck. Jaq fucking raped her. _

_ I don’t know any other way to put it. It’s so fucking blunt. You can’t soften that blow, can you? You can’t use pretty words to make it all more swallowable. _

_ I had fucking Stockholm Syndrome. From the fucking beginning. He told me I was too stupid for this, not good enough for that. He trashed my taste in music and my hobbies and my beliefs. And I fell for him, so fucking hard. _

_ I’m still left wondering if he was right.  _

_ I had a meeting with Ned that day. I had just started to feel like I might cut it off with him, get a job again. _

_ I couldn’t know that Jaq would fucking follow me there. _

_ It’s all really a blur.  _

_ I walked in, we got started with our usual arrangement, and then Jaq burst into the hotel room with a fucking gun, didn’t even hesitate before pulling the trigger. I jumped out of the way, but sometimes I can convince myself that he was actually aiming for my head, and not Ned’s leg.  _

_ It seems like bullshit. I still wonder if I hallucinated it all, if I’m crazier than I thought and it’s all some weird paranoid fever dream. This shit doesn’t actually happen. Especially not in less than 24 hours. _

_ Sometimes I sit and wonder which ancestor pissed off which bitter pagan back in Ireland for my family to have the luck that we have. My life is a fucking dramedy. _

_ On the topic of Ned, at least I have a fallback to make money. I should probably hitchhike to a bigger city, probably Indianapolis. If I can find whatever gay strip they’ve got there, I can find a few somebody’s to pay for my next meal. _

* * *

The upside to Ian declaring that they are now in an open relationship is that it has somewhat defined that they are, in fact, in a relationship. Mickey feels more easy about sharing a room, sitting a little too close on the couch, pouring two cups of coffee instead of one.

There’s this new tension between them, though, something that doesn’t dissolve easily. It isn’t bad but it isn’t the same. It’s not the bubble of honeymoon they had had before. It physically hurts sometimes when they kiss now, in the best way, like they’re daring each other to take advantage of their open arrangement. 

They still coexist easily. Ian watches movies with Mandy, jokes with Iggy. Even Colin seems to warm up to him, in his own way. But Mickey can’t shake the way his entire inside buzzes when Ian’s in the room. It isn’t a friendship anymore; Mickey doesn’t think it ever was. But there’s something different about it now.

He realizes that he’s touching Ian a lot more. An arm around the shoulder, an absent hand tangled in red hair. Fingers intertwined at any opportunity. Fingertips tracing light circles across denim. Heads, bodies in laps. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it until Mandy comments on it.

“Didn’t really peg you for the clingy type, Mick,” she had said offhandedly, as she, Mickey, and Ian stood around around the kitchen, sipping their first coffees of the day. When Mickey had asked her what the fuck she meant, her eyes had flickered to where Mickey’s arm was wrapped comfortably around Ian’s waist, thumb caught in the other boy’s belt loop, as if that would explain everything.

Mickey was very grateful when she quickly dropped the subject.

But ever since her remark, Mickey’s been wondering:  _ why _ ? He thinks maybe it’s to counterbalance the nervous energy he suddenly feels around the other boy, to stay grounded. Maybe it’s his way of stating that Ian is his. Whatever it is, it only gets worse as time goes on.

When his constant displays of affection start to spill over into public, that’s when he feels he needs to reevaluate the root of the issue.

It starts when Ian meets Mickey on the boardwalk at the end of his shift at Leo’s, and they lazily walk down towards the Outlet, maybe going home, maybe not. Mickey slips his hand into Ian’s when the crowd gets thick and doesn’t let go when it thins back out.

They’ve done that before, though, so Mickey doesn’t think too much of it.

Next is when they’re getting ice cream, a last minute decision at sunset, and Mickey lets Ian have a taste of his turtle sundae and Ian gives Mickey a taste of his strawberry cheesecake cone and the blinding pink of the setting sun leads Mickey to lean over and place an unprompted peck on Ian’s cheek.

Maybe it’s unrelated, but Ian gives him the best blowjob of his life that night.

The crown jewel of PDA happens towards the tail end of June, when he and Ian and his siblings all go out to breakfast at the diner halfway down the boardwalk, and instantly regret it when they’re shoved into a booth meant for a maximum of four fairly medium-sized people. Ian pulls Mickey onto his lap to conserve space and Mickey protests loudly (“ _ Hey, I’m not a fucking girl, Gallagher! _ ”) but he doesn’t move, doesn’t pretend to. Not even after three straight minutes of his siblings taking the piss out of him. Not even when the waitress comes around for their orders, not-so-subtly rolling her eyes at the overwhelmingly homosexual display. 

When he sees Salt and Pepper (conveniently) waltz into the diner, everything is worth it.

He watches the way the man’s step stutters, stopping to stare at them.

_ Watch this, fucker. _

Mickey has no idea what gets into him when he grins wickedly, looping his arms around Ian’s neck (yes, like an actual sixteen year old girl) and leaning in to place a not-so-chaste kiss on Ian’s lips, holding the man’s gaze until the second their lips meet and throwing up a very prominent middle finger in his direction.

He’s caught between thinking about what a jealous bitch he really is and how satisfying it is to remind Salt and Pepper that he ain’t shit.

He ignores his siblings’ cries of disgust and revels in the shocked, borderline hurt look on Salt and Pepper’s face when he pulls back.

Ian blinks at him in slight shock. “What was that for?”

Mickey just shrugs and traces the shell of Ian’s ear lightly with his index finger, trying his best not to spare Salt and Pepper a second glance, choosing instead to focus on a small freckle right above Ian’s jaw.

Mickey  _ knows  _ it’s out of character for him, but that’s what Ian does. Makes him act like a completely fucking different person, without demanding it once.

Salt and Pepper leaves the damn diner without buying a thing.

Mickey gets comfortable. He gets too comfortable. He keeps one arm hooked around Ian’s neck when the food comes and, for the first time in his life, thanks the Maker for handing him a below average height.

“So, the guy I’m seeing wants me to bring my family to his family’s Fourth of July party,” Mandy starts through a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

Mickey’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “You’ve been seein’ a guy?”

Mandy responds with an exasperated glare. “Seriously, Mickey? I’ve been talking about this guy for weeks!”

“The rich guy, right? The lawyer?” Ian provides.

Mandy throws a hand in Ian’s direction. “Even your  _ boyfriend  _ listens to me better than you do.”

Mickey turns to throw Ian a betrayed look over his shoulder, greeted by an apologetic smile.

“Whatever,” Mickey dismisses. “We ain’t goin’.”

“Fuck you, Mickey, you don’t get to decide that.”

“I agree with Mick, though,” Iggy interjects, waving a half-eaten piece of bacon through the air. “No way am I spendin’ my Fourth of July at some bland asshole’s barbecue. My parole officer  _ just  _ stopped the weekly drug tests.”

Mickey gestures pointedly to Iggy. “See? We ain’t spendin’ July Fourth singin’ Kumbaya and exchangin’ pineapple marinade recipes just so they can stand around and talk shit about us when we leave.”

“I don’t know, Mick,” Ian contributes. “Shouldn’t you meet him? Make sure he’s not an asshole? Since he’s dating your sister.”

Mickey scoffs. “My  _ sister  _ let  _ me _ start shackin’ up with a hooker I picked up off the fuckin’  _ street _ ,” he points out. Ian barks out a laugh, squeezing hard where his hand rests on Mickey’s upper thigh. “You really think she gives a shit about my opinion?” Mickey continues.

“I don’t,” Mandy emphasizes. “I just thought you assholes wouldn’t turn down an open bar and illegal fireworks.”

“Wouldn’t have to buy booze if we went,” Colin comments.

“Or deal with tourists on the beach,” Ian adds.

“Shit. They probably buy the good meat.” Iggy takes a thoughtful bite of his last strip of bacon. “Like, fresh from the deli.”

“Well  _ shit _ , in  _ that  _ case…” Mickey glances around the table, and realizes he’s outnumbered. He clenches his jaw, his resolve slowly slipping, and then Ian squeezes his thigh again and he breaks. 

_ Fuck. _

“Fine,” he groans out. “We’ll crash the damn party.”

“Can’t crash something you’re invited to, Mick,” Ian corrects.

“Trust me, by the end of the night, we’ll be uninvited  _ and _ excommunicated.”

* * *

Ian doesn’t sleep with anybody else for another two weeks after they become tentatively open. Or, if he does, he breaks rule number three and he doesn’t tell Mickey. But Ian doesn’t seem like the type of person to lie about something he has explicit permission to do.

Ian doesn’t sleep with anybody else. Until he does.

It’s July 3rd, at 3:05 am, when Ian stumbles into Mickey’s room (or  _ their  _ room, as Mickey has found himself calling it lately) and into bed, taking approximately 50 seconds to settle before admitting that he has fucked someone.

Mickey feels eerily calm when the redhead confides this information. Only nods, slips an arm underneath his sort-of-boyfriend, pulls him closer by the waist so his head falls easily to rest on Mickey’s chest, and shudders out a sigh.

He tries hard to keep it from sounding like a sob.

He had agreed to this, after all.

Ian smells like tequila and citrus and something else that Mickey would rather not think about. Mickey buries his face against Ian’s hair and tries to just focus on the  _ Ian  _ part of the scent.

Mickey hates that he’d prefer Ian’s sleeping weight on him even when he smells like somebody else than Ian’s sleeping weight never being on him again.

He finds himself wondering, again, why he isn’t enough.

Mickey has his own theories.

They haven’t fucked, yet. It’s been nearly a month, of being sort-of-together, and they haven’t actually had real sex. Ian hasn’t once mentioned it, hasn’t even  _ tried  _ it, hasn’t applied any sort of pressure. 

But when you’re seventeen and supremely experienced, Mickey can acknowledge, having a boyfriend that you don’t fuck is probably frustrating as hell. 

The thing is, Mickey  _ wants  _ to. God, he wants to. But something in the back of his mind screams that once they do, once he trusts Ian that much, he’s fucked for life. Fucking ruined. Maybe he already is, but something about sex with someone you care about, it  _ means  _ something. Everything.

For lack of a better word: sex is fucking  _ intimate _ .

Mickey has gotten comfortable. Too comfortable. But now, Ian’s gone and fucked someone else, and Mickey can’t help but think it’s because he feels he can’t get what he needs right here.

* * *

Mandy makes them dress in what she calls barbecue formal (collared shirts and jeans that are  _ not  _ ripped) and they grab the tram to the one digits. The further down the boardwalk they get, the tighter Mickey’s collar feels around his throat.

He  _ hates  _ this sort of shit. And it’s not because he’s a buzzkill, or because he can’t appreciate a good hotdog, but because he hates the way these sort of crowds treat his family. 

They’re a band of orphans. Literally. They share a name with one of the most infamous drug cartel ringleaders on  _ either  _ side of the Delaware River, and though three (and hopefully, once Iggy gets a fucking job, four) out of the six of them get through life making an honest living, people are still wary.

Walking into dinner with the Brady Bunch as a tried and true Milkovich is enough to make any one of them sweat like a pig.

And when he thinks about it, even though they  _ do  _ have honest jobs and they really  _ are  _ just trying to pay their bills and live their lives with what little they have, they really still are something to talk about.

Iggy just got out of prison for aggravated assault and possession of illegal substances. Mickey is employed by a well-known front.  Mandy’s a high school dropout who took on three part time jobs to pay for an abortion  _ and  _ her share of the bills. Ian’s an openly gay, runaway stripper. Colin’s just a gruff, protective asshole. 

They aren’t normal. They have each other, and that’s it. That’s how it’s always been. It’s a miracle that Ian was so quickly accepted, and now they’re supposed to go and try with some rich asshole just trying to get into their sister’s pants? At least Ian understands why they live the way they live, why they are the way they are. He understands it because he’s lived it, just as much as they have, even more so. This guy’s family will see them as a novelty, as something to fix and help and laugh at later. They won’t see the Milkoviches as people. They’ll see them as a tourist attraction. A project.

Mickey isn’t surprised when they’re standing in front of a pristine beach house, quite obviously only lived in for a few months a year.

The excess of professional landscaping makes his skin itch.

Mandy rings the doorbell, which actually works (just adding fuel to the fire, really) and a well-dressed young man in a pink (yes,  _ pink _ ) polo and khaki pants answers it.

Mandy is on him the second the door opens, stepping forward to press a kiss to his cheek and smile widely.

“Hey, babe!” the guy grins, a San Diego drawl permeating his words. He wraps an arm around Mandy’s waist.

“Guys,” Mandy starts, “this is Blake.” They all mutter their hellos. “Blake, this is my family!”

Mickey can see past them, and there’s a goddamn chandelier hanging from the ceiling. 

He knew this was a bad idea.

Mandy runs through them quickly. “That’s Colin, the big one, that’s Iggy, the skinny one, then that’s Mickey, the little one.”

“Hey!” Mickey protests. Mandy sticks her tongue out and Mickey promptly flips her off. “Bitch,” he mutters, and he tries not to roll his eyes at the way Blake looks genuinely concerned over the exchange.

“And, um,” Blake looks at Ian, who stands next to Mickey, visibly amused by the situation. “Another brother? Cousin?”

“Oh, no, that’s just Ian. Mickey’s boyfriend,” Mandy explains. Both Mickey and Ian open their mouths to correct her, but she throws a glare in their direction that tells them to keep the intricacies of their fucked up relationship out of this party. 

“ _ Boyfriend? _ ” Blake reiterates incredulously. Something close to disgust passes over his face before he’s able to mask it as surprise.

Mickey puffs up. Like  _ hell  _ did he want to do this today. “You got a problem?” he challenges, visibly sizing him up, and Blake immediately shrinks.

Mickey’s had a bit more experience with people taking his relationship with Ian as a personal offense in the past few weeks, but it’s only served to make him more unapologetic about it than ever.

Ian places a hand on his shoulder and mutters, “Mick, chill.”

“I--you just don’t look--”

“Queer?”

“Uh--”

“Should Mandy introduce me as the fuckin’ gay one? Would that make it more clear?”

“I--”

“Should I wear a pink triangle? Would that help make things easier on your meager understanding of the root of sexuality?” 

“ _ Mickey. _ ” Ian squeezes his shoulder, hard, and then leans down to whisper in his ear. “Chill the  _ fuck  _ out.” 

He still glares at Blake, but he doesn’t say anything else. Blake’s practically cowering, anyway.

_ Pussy. _

“Sorry,” Ian says, with empty cheer. “He gets extra grumpy when he’s hungry.”

Everyone, excluding Mickey, laughs at that, and it serves to break the tension enough for them to be ushered through the house and into the spacious backyard, where about thirty other white people dressed identical to Blake stand around laughing mildly and drinking from clear plastic cups. Blake avoids Mickey’s eye entirely, and splits off from the Milkoviches the first chance he gets, Mandy in tow.

“I don’t like him,” Mickey immediately asserts as they make a beeline for the bar.

“You don’t like anybody,” Ian responds.

“Nah, he kinda sucks, Gallagher,” Iggy refutes.

“I didn’t say he doesn’t suck. He totally sucks.”

“He smells like a fuckin’ girl,” Colin provides. He leans forward and grabs at the bottle of Fireball visible behind the bar, earning them a glare from the pristine woman that is maybe supposed to be the bartender for the night. “You could smell him comin’ from 5 fuckin’ miles away.”

Colin reaches behind the bar again and grabs four shot glasses, too, and the woman moves over to stand in front of them, gripping the edge of the bar and pursing her lips when Colin pours them a line on his own.

“Can I  _ help _ you?” the woman asks, nonplussed.

Iggy throws back a shot, and Mickey holds his up with a smile. “Obviously not.”

The woman stares at them with distaste as the remaining three of them down the whiskey and Colin begins to pour another round.

“ _ Gabe, _ ” she calls into the space of the backyard, tapping her fingers impatiently on the wood of the makeshift bar. Her eyes shift behind Mickey and his family and Mickey hears muted footsteps as he knocks back another shot, the taste of cinnamon extremely satisfying; his thoughts are starting to melt just slightly. But when Mickey sees Ian turn and freeze like a deer in the headlights, he whips around, suddenly completely clear headed.

It’s him. Fucking Salt and Pepper. Ian’s regular.

“Are these... _ people _ on the guest list?”

“The guest list?” Iggy barks out a laugh. “Blake invited us. We’re with Mandy.”

Mickey stares at the man, Gabe, dumbfounded.

_ What the fuck? _

Gabe hardly seems phased, eyes only shifting uncomfortably between Ian and Mickey a few times before he slips into an easy smile.

“Ah, Mandy! Blake’s new girl. Remember, dear? You must be the Milkoviches. I’m Gabe, Blake’s brother.” He holds out a hand to Colin first, who shakes it reluctantly and mumbles his name, then to Iggy, who shrugs and does the same. Then he reaches Mickey, who just stares at the man, dead-on, not breaking out of his stupor until Ian elbows him. Hard.

He shakes Gabe’s hand and spits out his own name. He can see the contempt in the other man’s eyes, and the sudden anger bubbling just below his own skin suggests he won’t have much of a fuse tonight.

Gabe is about to offer a hand to Ian when someone yells out, “ _ Beer pong championship starts pronto!”  _ and Mickey jumps up, taking Ian’s hand and dragging him in the direction of the voice without a single glance at Gabe.

Ian doesn’t protest.

Someone has lugged a ping pong table outside, and Mickey finds himself trying his best to get lost in the crowd surrounding the game, holding Ian’s hand in a death grip to keep himself from clocking the next person that brushes against him.

His brothers join him a few months later, handing both he and Ian a can of beer.

“What the fuck, Mick? What’s your deal?” Colin hisses.

“That asshole is a fuckin’ stalker,” Mickey answers, none too quietly. A few people side-eye him, and Ian frantically shushes him. “What? They don’t know which asshole I’m talkin’ about.”

“Ian has a stalker?” Iggy inquires.

“No, I don’t. I have a  _ regular _ . That guy comes around the club almost every night. Only buys dances from me,” Ian explains.

“ _ And  _ shows up at your fucking church, and where you fucking eat--”

“Where I eat?” Ian interrupts.

Mickey flushes a slightly darker shade of pink. “Yeah. Three days ago, at the diner. Fucker came in, saw you with me, looked fuckin’ constipated and left.”

“Is  _ that  _ why you sucked face in front--” Colin starts.

“Shut the  _ fuck  _ up,” Mickey cuts in, definitely confirming for everyone present that yes, that is the reason. “That’s not the point.”

“What  _ is _ the point, Mick?” Ian asks, letting go of Mickey’s hand to cross his arms and turn pointedly towards him. “We’re at  _ his  _ house. Not the other way around. It’s just a coincidence. Even if it is fuckin’ awkward.”

“Don’t  _ any  _ of you feel weird about this?” Mickey asks, looking from his brothers to Ian, who look back at him blankly. “Mandy suddenly snags some rich lawyer douchebag who just  _ happens  _ to be related to the guy that shells out up near a thousand bucks a week to grind on Ian for two minutes at a time, and we’re all just supposed to be okay with that?”

“Sure I feel weird about it,” Ian interjects, and Mickey softens slightly. “I probably feel the most weird about it, Mick. But I just don’t think it  _ means  _ anything.” Ian grabs Mickey’s wrist and tugs him closer, out of the way of a jock-looking boy that’s stepping backwards without any awareness of Mickey’s presence. Mickey glares at the oblivious guy and elects to wrap an arm around Ian’s waist. 

“Can we just try to have fun?” Ian pleads, looking down at Mickey with those fucking eyes, the ones that briefly make everything bad in Mickey’s aura melt away, turning him into a soft mess.

He tightens his arm on Ian’s waist, avoiding the amused expressions on his brothers’ faces.

“Fine,” he mumbles through gritted teeth.

Colin and Iggy shake their heads. “Whipped motherfucker.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He finds himself relaxing, though, after the indirect assurance that, no, Ian is not interested in the guy,  _ Gabe _ . Asshole name.

They enter the beer pong competition as two separate teams: Iggy and Mickey, and Colin and Ian. Iggy and Mickey lose by a long shot. Colin and Ian progress to the finals and lose narrowly to a pair of too-loud frat type guys. 

The result is a borderline drunk Ian and a fairly tipsy everybody else.

Mickey’s never actually encountered Ian  _ this  _ drunk before, and he has to admit it’s probably the highlight of the night. 

Drunk Ian is fucking uninhibited.

He converses freely with anyone he can, complete fucking strangers, which normally Mickey would abhor, but his own tipsy mind just finds it really cute. He laughs easily, too. Loudly, and it’s like fucking music. Infectious. Mickey finds himself laughing, too.

“You know you have  _ pretty  _ eyes, Mick. Pretty fuckin’ eyes,” Ian exclaims as he slings his arm over Mickey’s shoulders for the millionth time that night. “Like the fuckin’...sky. Or a pool. With  _ chlorine. _ ”

Mickey tightens his already cautious hold on Ian’s waist. “Uh huh,” he answers, with a roll of said chlorine-colored eyes.

It’s starting to get dark, the sunset muting into dull pinks, and a few men with fireworks hoisted on their shoulders saunter past.

Mickey is startled out of watching them when Ian pokes his cheek firmly, with one finger. Mickey turns his head to look at his sort-of-boyfriend with raised eyebrows, biting back a smile at the sight of the other boy’s open expression.

“You’ve got a really nice face,” Ian stage-whispers, quickly breaking into a grin. “My boyfriend’s got a nice face!” the redhead calls to an older man walking past, ignoring the look of bewilderment and slight contempt the man throws them in favor of looking back at Mickey.

Mickey stares back, his heart beating a mile minute, as he realizes what Ian’s just said. 

Neither of them have called what they’re doing anything more committed than ‘banging.’ Which yes, may vaguely imply that they are together, but still, everything’s just always been kept casual. Affectionate, but casual. No declarations of love, no real romantic dates (after their first one, that is), no Facebook official announcement. Mickey knows they’re  _ something _ , but hearing the word, the word that Ian had crossed off as a possibility a little under a month ago, it means more than it maybe should.

“Your  _ boyfriend _ , huh?” Mickey asks, aiming for nonchalance and maybe failing. Ian freezes beside him, tensing immediately, arm going slack on his shoulders. He slowly turns his head to look at Mickey, expression borderline mortified.

“What?”

Mickey blinks, eyebrows shooting up. “What do you mean,  _ what _ ? You just called me your--”

He’s cut off when Ian drops his arm entirely, turning and walking away without a backwards glance. 

Mickey thinks maybe he hears Ian mutter a panicked, “ _ Fuck! _ ”

“W--Ian!” Mickey calls after him, pushing through a crowd of pastel-clad people to follow him. “The fuck--come back here!”

Mickey just barely manages to trail Ian ( _ fuck  _ his giraffe legs, man) through the backyard and around the house, to a small poolhouse stationed next to the most ridiculous pool Mickey has ever seen. Lit from the bottom of the pool, with full grown palm trees surrounding it. Crystal clear water. He’s not surprised that Gabe’s family is the type of have something like this. Really emphasizes the douchebag-to-end-all-douchebags aesthetic. 

Ian leans against the smooth wood of the poolhouse, hand rubbing compulsively at the back of his head, mussing up his hair, an intensely conflicted look on his face. Mickey wastes no time in getting his attention.

“Two fuckin’ minutes ago you were laughin’ and bein’ best friends with anyone who fuckin’ looked at you. The fuck are you actin’ psycho for?” Mickey demands, tone more accusatory than he meant it to be. Ian’s eyes snap up to meet Mickey’s, and the look of hurt that takes hold of his entire stature causes Mickey’s heart to drop.

Ian shakes his head, jaw set, and he pushes away from the wall, moving to shove past Mickey pointedly, but Mickey grabs his wrist, detaining him.

“Fuck--no, you’re not fuckin’ leavin’ until you tell me what the fuck’s goin’ on.”

Ian stares at him with red-rimmed eyes, watery and almost sorrowful. 

“Hey,” Mickey says, gentler. He releases Ian’s wrist to cup his face with both hands. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s alright. You can tell me.”

Ian opens and closes his mouth a few times, before his eyes drop to the ground in a defeated manner. “ _ Fuck, _ ” he breathes out. Then, he’s looking around, like he’s lost, like he’s looking for something, and his eyes settle vacantly on the pool when Mickey drops his hands. “Wanna stick our feet in?” he suggests mildly.

Mickey laughs in surprise. “Really? That’s what you’ve got to say right now?” When Ian shrugs, Mickey sighs. “Fine, man. Sure.” 

They’re pulling off their socks and rolling up their jeans quietly, and when they dangle their legs in, pressed up against each other, Mickey feels himself begin to uncoil, at the feeling of the not-too-cool water on his skin contrasting with the heat of Ian at his side. 

“Sorry,” Ian finally mumbles, after a very long stretch of silence.

“For what?”

“For freaking out. I get weird sometimes. You haven’t really--you haven’t seen that much yet. Sorry.”

Mickey chews his lip, spares a few glances at Ian, at the way he gazes thoughtfully, painfully, into the water, lit by lights hidden below.

“That day, when you were thinkin’ about your mom,” Mickey starts, and he feels Ian shift next to him, but he can't stop himself now. “What’d she do?” It’s a question that’s been burning in his mind for weeks; something just seems essential about Ian’s mysterious mother, something about it screams,  _ Hello, I’m important _ _! _

Mickey doesn’t think Ian’s going to speak again.

But, then, he does. For a while.

He tells Mickey about his mother, his clinically bipolar mother, who left when he was three and would only come home maybe once a year and ask to be a part of their lives again. He tells Mickey about the days she would spend in bed, the situation with his real father (some rich douche that wanted fuck all to do with him), when she came home for a longer stretch than usual when Ian was fifteen and bonded with him and took him to clubs and became “Mom” again. He tells Mickey about Thanksgiving that year, staring blankly at the bloodstains his mother left when she slit her wrists long after she’d been rushed to the hospital.

Mickey entangles their fingers sometime within Ian’s monologue, knocking their knees together, silently absorbing it. 

Ian tells him about the army, electing to skip over whatever the fuck his nightmare ex did, about being kicked out.

“They told me I’m bipolar, too,” Ian finishes, as if he has quarrel with their reasoning. 

“Are you?”

Ian’s quiet for a beat.

“I don’t feel like I am,” he finally refutes. “Not like Monica.”

“Well,” Mickey says slowly. “How d’ya feel?”

“Like.” Ian breathes out sharply, maybe in frustration, maybe in thought. “Like,” he starts again, “I can’t stop fucking...moving. Sometimes. Like if I stop moving I’ll shake anyway so, like, I should just keep moving. My mind fucking...it's always working. Always just going forward to the next thing. To the next thing. Like...fucking, there’s a candle in my chest, right? And fucking anything can make it a big fire. Or blow it out. Sometimes it gets blown out.”

Mickey knows that Ian’s still drunk, but he doesn’t think the other boy could have explained it any better if he was sober.

“What happens if it gets blown out?” Mickey feels the smallest bit ridiculous asking the question like that, but it seems to be the only way to phrase it that would make sense.

The redhead scrunches his nose, and Mickey thinks he can feel Ian’s grip tighten minutely on his hand.

“Ya know...can’t get out of bed, and stuff. It’s only happened twice, though. Not for very long.” Ian draws the statement out, like it hurts to admit it. Mickey understands that, somehow.

“Hm.” Mickey shifts slightly closer, resting his chin on Ian’s shoulder. He distantly hears someone call that it’s time for fireworks, but he doesn’t even think of moving. 

Something about this seems too important to move. Too vulnerable. Singular.

“Sorry,” Mickey says gently. “For callin’ you psycho.” It’s bigger than the word, he knows.

Ian smiles slightly. “Sorry for callin’ you my boyfriend.”

Mickey sits up in surprise, turning his head sharply to look at Ian. “Why’re you sorry for that?”

Ian meets his gaze, blinking slowly. “Because...I thought we weren’t.”

“I mean…” Mickey scratches at the tip of his nose nervously, glancing around the pool. “We share a fuckin’ bed, man.”

“Yeah, but that’s...just convenience, right?”

Mickey bites back a hysterical laugh. He holds up their interlocked hands with raised eyebrows. “Seriously?”

Ian stares back with startled eyes. “I just...I got the impression that you don’t do labels, or something.”

“Gallagher,  _ you’re  _ the one who said you don’t want a boyfriend.”

“You said it too!”

“Yeah, a fuckin’ month ago! When the only person who  _ knew  _ about me was my sister!”

Ian huffs out a breath, releasing Mickey’s hand to cross his arms across his chest. 

When it seems like Ian doesn’t intend on elaborating further, the buzzing in his head from the alcohol in his veins leads Mickey to fill the silence.

“I was scared you were gonna leave,” he admits after a moment, eyes locking to the safety of the gently shifting water enveloping their feet.

Ian’s eyebrows draw together, and he twists to look at Mickey more completely, water splashing with his movement. “What?”

“I had just fuckin’ realized I’m...ya know. And I was scared you were gonna leave. Didn’t sound like you’d stayed in one place for very long. So I didn’t wanna fuckin’...get my hopes up, or whatever.” Mickey kicks his feet idly, watching the water ripple. The first firework ascends, bursting into a small white constellation, hovering for a second before fading away. “But...you’ve stayed,” Mickey adds, after the echo of the explosion passes, finally looking up at Ian. 

“I’ve stayed,” Ian repeats, as if he hasn’t realized it himself.

“Yeah,” Mickey affirms. Another firework sounds, red this time. Mickey only knows because the color reflects brightly on Ian’s skin. 

_ God,  _ he wants to kiss him.

But Mickey, he’s said his piece. It’s Ian’s turn to take a step. That’s how they work. One foot in front of the other.

One more firework crackles into existence, white sparks twinkling like stardust. Ian tugs on Mickey’s arm once the lights fade to ash.

“You wanna swim?” Ian suggests, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Mickey scoffs. “In fuckin’ what? I ain’t skinny dippin’ with fuckin’... _ Gabe  _ lurkin’ around.”

“Boxers. Come  _ on _ , I’m too drunk to listen to fuckin’...reason.” 

Mickey opens his mouth to protest further, but Ian’s already up and stripping, breaking their bubble and moving Mickey to do the same, despite his overwhelming thoughts that this is  _ far  _ too much like a bad teen rom-com for his liking.

Ian has him doing a lot of that shit, lately.

Mickey’s only  _ just  _ gotten his jeans off when Ian’s in his space, so close their noses nearly brush, and the speed at which the world shrinks down to the boy in front of him is almost disorienting.

“You  _ can  _ swim, right, Chicago?” Mickey chuckles out.

Ian rolls his eyes, laughing sarcastically. Then, he presses a hand to Mickey’s chest, hesitating for just a second before shoving Mickey the fuck in.

“Fu-- _ Gallagher! _ ” Mickey splutters out as he resurfaces, wiping water from his eyes. “Fuck you, man.” Ian’s cackling at him, doubled over, until Mickey wades forward and grabs hold of the other boy’s wrist, tugging him in, too. The splash of Ian tumbling into the water is punctuated by another booming firework.

Ian recovers faster than Mickey, not wasting time to curse, instead lunging forward to tackle Mickey and push him under the water. Mickey holds his breath as he goes under, wrapping his arms around Ian’s chest to drag him down, too, seeing a laugh escape Ian’s mouth, captured in a burst of bubbles. They come back up for air, Mickey shoving Ian in retaliation and receiving a face full of splashed water. When Mickey splashes back, Ian reaches over, grabbing Mickey by the waist and spinning him, pushing him solidly against the side of the pool. 

Another firework sounds, a huge one that gives Ian’s wet hair a blue tint. Mickey swallows hard.

“You got anything else to say, tough guy?” Ian teases, tone fond.

Mickey answers by leaning up the slightest bit to meet Ian’s lips in a slow kiss.

And  _ fuck  _ if it doesn’t feel like a firework of their own. 

The kiss lingers, and Ian tastes like spice and alcohol and chlorine and something else, something new. Sincerity, maybe. Relief.

Ian pulls back a fraction, mouth twitching into an odd smile. “Fuck,” the boy breathes, and Mickey’s throat tightens. “I’m fuckin’ happy.” He says the words like he wants to live in them, like he never wants to feel any way but the way he feels right now. He says the words sadly, too. Wistfully. Like his heart is breaking because he knows he’s supposed to feel this way more often. Not just now, in this rare moment. He’s supposed to feel it more. And Mickey knows. He knows.

Normal people don’t get sad over being happy. Normal people are happy often enough that they don’t need the balancing act. The give and take. Don’t need to choke back a flood of indiscernible emotion when they remember, ‘ _ No, this won’t last.’ _

Mickey kisses him again, soft, almost chaste, as if to whisper the words he wants to scream.

_ Me too. _

When they break apart, Ian looks at him with something close to bewilderment. Not quite fear. Disorientation.

“You make me happy,” Ian confesses in a whisper, so softly Mickey could have sworn it was just a part of the white noise, and then Ian’s leaning in for another kiss and  _ something _ about it, the way it’s unhurried but purposeful, familiar, something about it confirms Ian’s statement better than anything else could.

Mickey breathes him in, and the feeling in his lungs is better than cigarette smoke, better than THC. “You make me feel fuckin’... _ invincible, _ man,” Mickey finally murmurs when he pulls back.

It’s stupid. He means it with all his heart.

When Ian kisses him again, Mickey’s thumb skirting across his jaw, it feels like breathing.

Mickey wants him. He feels too fearless not to have him.

“You wanna go home?” Mickey suggests. Ian nods lazily.

“Yeah. Home.” Ian runs an idle finger up Mickey’s side. “Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i love writing mickey free of terry's abuse but still maintaining the toughness from growing up in a shitty neighborhood because it makes him truly fearless and unapologetic bye!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an update? what???? (sorry this chapter is so short and sad i had a lot of trouble with it)

Leaving is messy; for the second time in a month, Mickey finds himself accompanying Ian back to the Milkovich house in wet boxers. They manage to avoid Mickey’s family, and anybody else’s questions, slipping back through the house during the penultimate round of fireworks. They stumble through the front door, Ian tugging Mickey by the wrist, and pause to blink at the empty street.

“Tram doesn’t run this late,” Mickey mumbles.

“Bus?”

“Nah. Too late.”

“Can’t walk.”

“Am I gonna have to get an Uber?”

“Can’t walk,” Ian repeats, sitting solidly on the curb in emphasis. “‘S too far.”

“Fuck. Fine. Spend extra money on your drunk ass.”

“I’m not too drunk to walk, your house is just on the other end of the fucking boardwalk. Get a better area code.”

Mickey doesn’t answer him because he particularly does not want to admit that Ian is right. Instead, he taps around on his shitty, cracked iPhone that he acquired by semi-legal means two years ago, opening the Uber app that he never uses and ordering a car. Then, he sits down next to Ian and waits.

The distant sound of fireworks fills the quiet.

“Hey,” Ian says.

“Hm?”

“You believe in fate?”

“Fate?”

“Yeah,” Ian brushes a half-damp strand of hair out of his eyes. “Fate. Like, destiny. Predestination.”

Mickey stares at him. “Like, ‘everything happens for a reason’ bullshit?”

Ian laughs breathily. “I take that as a no.”

Mickey chews his lip, and thinks about it. Really thinks about it.

“I don’t know, man,” he finally sighs out. “My dad died in prison, I literally watched a guy throttle my mom. Life’s just been fuckin’  _ hard  _ ever since. If fate’s real, I must be on the universe’s shitlist.”

Ian taps the concrete. “Well,” he says, “I believe in it.”

“‘Course you do.”

Ian shushes him. “I’m tryin’ to say something profound, here.” 

Mickey raises his eyebrows, motions for him to continue.

“I believe in it,” Ian says slowly, “because, if all that shitty stuff didn’t happen and I didn’t run away halfway across the country, I never woulda met you and I never woulda been happy.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and turns his head away from Ian, to compensate for the grin pulling at his lips and the pounding in his chest. “Shut the fuck up.”

“I mean it,” Ian continues, and Mickey thinks he  _ must  _ be fucking with him now, must know about the blush creeping up his neck. “You make sense. Or, like, you make everything make sense. Or something. Everything feels less scary now. I know it hasn’t been long but it does.”

“You’re real chatty when you’re drunk,” Mickey observes. Ian shushes him again.

“You’re, like, the nicest, most kind...listen. Mickey.”

“I’m listenin’.”

“You listening?”

Mickey can’t help but laugh at that. Ian pins him with a glare until he can get himself under control. “I’m listening, Ian,” he says again, through a dangerously fond smile.

“You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, man,” Ian says sincerely, a statement that causes Mickey to pause. “Like, my best friend.” He stares at Ian for a beat, and Ian looks back, and Mickey knows how much the words mean. More than  _ I love you  _ or  _ I need you _ . 

Mickey’s never had a best friend. Or, really, any sort of close friend at all. He wouldn’t know the feeling of having a best friend if it shot him in the ass.

Maybe it feels something like this. Like easy conversation. Comfortable silence. Like spending every day together and not feeling tired. Like admitting things never said out loud before. Like sitting buzzed on a sidewalk talking about destiny and friendship and their shitty lives.

“I mean, I guess you’re mine, too.” Mickey chalks it up to the alcohol that makes him brave enough to say it.

“That’s good,” Ian says, pausing for only a beat, before adding, “considering I’m your  _ only _ friend.” He laughs at himself loudly, and Mickey only glares at him for about two seconds before he cracks and awards Ian a small laugh.

“Fuck you,” he says.

“It’s alright,” Ian assures through a shit-eating grin that quickly softens to genuine. “You’re my only friend, too.” Mickey smiles at that, maybe a little sadly, and reaches over, finding that Ian’s hand meets him halfway. Their fingers intertwine, and everything feels kind of alright. Ian shuffles the smallest bit closer, and his head falls to Mickey’s shoulder.

“You ever gonna go back to Chicago?” Mickey asks after a minute of distant explosions and beachy wind. 

“Maybe,” Ian muses. “Probably someday.”

Mickey turns his head and brushes a soft kiss to Ian’s hair. He wishes he could see the stars better. He wonders if you can see the stars at all in Chicago.

“Would you come with me?”

Mickey blinks, startled by the question. “Huh?”

“If I went back,” Ian clarifies softly. “Would you come?”

_ Yes.  _

Mickey wants to say it in a heartbeat. But then, he thinks of his family. Of the bills. Of Azurra. Everything he knows.

Maybe he’d miss the ocean a bit.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

Ian nods against his shoulder. “That’s okay.”

Something inside Mickey says he wouldn’t have the balls to pick up and leave. To take such a big chance on such a young concept.

Mickey hopes Ian will stick around long enough that going with him would make sense.

“I’d miss you,” Ian whispers. “If I left, I’d miss you.”

Mickey squeezes his hand. Kisses his head again. “Would ya write?” he mumbles against Ian’s hair.

Ian smiles. “‘Course I’d write. I’d send you a postcard with the best view of the Chicago skyline I could find. A really high quality one. Made from that shiny paper. And then I’d write a big long fucking letter every month with all the mundane details of my life and my family and my neighborhood and I’d keep sending them until you finally block my mailing address.”

“Promise?”

“Mhm.”

“We could just fuckin’ Skype like normal people.”

“Don’t have a computer back home.”

“Text?”

“No phone, either. Not to myself.”

Mickey releases Ian’s hand and shifts a bit closer, raising an arm to card his fingers gently through red hair. Ian softens into the touch, nuzzling closer. 

“So you’re really gonna write me, like, some faggy Amish pen pal shit?”

“Yup.”

“‘S a long way off, though, right?” Mickey asks, wincing at the hopeful tone in his voice.

“Right,” Ian confirms sleepily. “Not ‘til fall, at least. You know, when the gay tourist crowd moves on.” 

“Okay.”

They stay like that a bit longer, and maybe the thought of begging Ian to stick around forever crosses his mind, but he knows he’ll never say it out loud. No one wants to hear what they already know. What they already silently decline.

Mickey only briefly wonders what’s taking their car so long.

“You want me to stay?” Ian asks suddenly. 

Mickey doesn’t feel afraid when he admits, “Yeah, I want you to stay.”

“How long?”

Mickey presses one more kiss to Ian’s temple, but doesn’t have the opportunity to answer before the sound of a purring engine interrupts them.

Their car pulls up a house down (close enough) and Mickey nudges Ian, who sighs out with the anticipated effort and then stands and offers Mickey a hand up.

They don’t let go when Mickey finds his balance, or when they slide into the backseat. Ian sits unnecessarily close, shifting closer to pepper single kisses on Mickey’s cheek, neck, jaw. Mickey pretends to take it begrudgingly, but the grin he can’t seem to swallow gives him away.

Ian whispers something about their driver’s abnormally large ears halfway through the drive and Mickey tells him to shut up. He fights to control his own laughter.

“Are you visiting Azurra on your honeymoon?” the driver asks, after quiet observation.

Mickey can’t hold back his laughter anymore after that.

“No,” Ian tells him, with false sincerity, only pulling back slightly from the skin of Mickey’s neck to speak. “A month ago he asked for the boyfriend experience and he still hasn’t paid me.”

Mickey’s sides hurt. “I’d pay you if you were worth any money, bitch,” he eventually shoots back between breaths. Ian bites gently at his pulse in response, and Mickey has to choke back a gasp. It’s this moment that Mickey can’t stop himself, even with another person in the car, from turning his head and capturing Ian’s lips with his own, deepening it after only a few seconds and nipping at the other boy’s bottom lip, hands falling to his hips. Ian’s arms wrap around his neck and he kisses back with fervour, desperate.

_ We need to be home, now. _

The driver doesn’t say anything else, eyes glued anywhere but the rearview mirror. 

Mickey’s not sure that the driver’s original question is answered even when they pull up to the curb, in front of a worn down house in a shitty neighborhood, because Ian pulls Mickey from the car as soon as it rolls to a stop and Mickey fumbles with his key as Ian plasters himself to his back and wraps his arms around his middle, making it infinitely harder to get the key in the fucking door.

Mickey’s considering just smashing the window when the key finally turns, thank God, and they stumble inside, definitely looking like newlyweds to the driver outside.

Ian’s got his fingers on the buttons of Mickey’s shirt immediately, and Mickey’s tugging on the hem of Ian’s shirt in return, their lips crashing unhelpfully back together. Mickey blindly kicks the door shut behind them and they step back through the living room as Ian successfully finishes unbuttoning Mickey’s shirt, pushing it from his shoulders eagerly. Mickey pushes him against the wall dividing the living room from the hallway solidly, finally pulling back to tug the other boy’s shirt off.

His eyes rake down the bloom of Ian’s lips, his chest, the dip of his hips, and he takes a moment to just  _ look _ at him. At his reality.

_ Fuck,  _ he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of looking at Ian. 

He would write sonnets about his skin, if he could. Paint pictures using only the colors in his eyes, compose symphonies about his smile, so when he leaves he’ll have  _ something _ left, something to remember. If he could. If only he could.

He can’t. He knows he can’t. He’s got these hands, these calloused fucking hands, that were never meant to create. Survivor’s mind. He’s never had the luxury of art. Never took a deep enough breath for it. 

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Ian asks with a sheepish smile, bringing Mickey, blinking, back into the big picture. 

“ _ Fuck _ . You.”

He means to say ‘ _ Fuck you, _ ’ but his breath hitches and reveals his thoughts too easily.

He’d always been so controlled, before. When it mattered. Now he’s got his heart on his sleeve, just  _ there  _ for anyone to take a bite out of, ready to shrivel. He’s sure his thoughts are public, now. Rolling across his forehead like a fucking teleprompter.

_ You have stalled me for the foreseeable future! You’re in my lungs like fucking nicotine! If you leave for good, I might die young! _

He thinks maybe he doesn’t mind, so much. Not if it makes him feel this free.

Ian presses forward at Mickey’s declaration, dipping his head to catch Mickey’s lips in an earnest kiss, tugging him closer by the hips. Mickey’s heart flutters with every movement, pounding when it hasn’t stopped cold.

“I want you,” Ian breathes against Mickey’s lips, making his head swim.

Mickey thinks if he doesn’t get them to his bed in the next seven seconds, he’ll faint.

He pulls Ian away from the wall, and Ian kisses him relentlessly as he guides them down the hallway and through his doorway. They fall in a tangle of limbs and lips and Mickey needs him,  _ God  _ he needs him.

He slots himself between Ian’s legs as he fumbles with the button of Ian’s jeans. Ian tangles his fingers in Mickey’s hair, tugging lightly. Ian is warm beneath him, the air is quiet around him. 

“D’you have a condom and shit?” Mickey rasps as Ian ghosts his lips over the skin of his neck. 

Ian pauses, head falling back against the pillows beneath him. “Shit. Do you not?”

Mickey stares down at him incredulously. “I don’t carry that shit around, you’re the only person I--” he bites off the sentence, winces. 

_ Shit.  _

“I only keep stuff in my locker at work, that’s where I need it…” Ian barrels on, pausing as Mickey’s confession sets in. “Wait, what was that?”

Mickey’s stomach sinks at Ian’s implication, his ears ringing too much to register the question. He sits back, extricating himself from Ian, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. He can’t do this now, can’t have this conversation, can’t hear again that he isn’t enough.  

The abrupt change of mood is punctuated by the sound of the front door banging shut, his siblings’ loud voices quickly filling the house.

“Yo, Mick!” Iggy shouts. “You home?”

“Fuck,” Mickey sighs. “Yeah, asshole, what is it?” he calls out, reaching for the nearest shirt.

“Oh, God, are these their  _ clothes _ ?” Mandy’s muffled voice inquires with disgust. “Please don’t tell me one of them is balls deep in the other one right now.” 

“We’re not fucking, Mandy,” Mickey yells in response, standing and tearing open the door as Ian works to pull on something, too. “That party just sucked ass.” He pauses when he spots his family, and notices the slice of white bread that’s accompanied them. “Jesus Christ, what is Brad doin’ here?” he asks.

“ _ Blake _ ,” Mandy corrects.

“Hey, Mickey,” Blake greets nervously. He shifts to the side to wave at Ian, who stands to lean an arm against the doorframe behind Mickey. “Hey, Ian.”

“Whatever the fuck. Why’s he here?” Mickey asks, ignoring Blake’s blatant attempt to act accepting. 

“He’s my boyfriend,” Mandy says. “You brought  _ your  _ boyfriend home.”

“That’s because Ian fucking pays rent,” Mickey argues. “He ain’t expectin’ fuckin’ Belgian waffles in the morning. Eats cereal like the rest of us.”

“Do you really think I don’t eat cereal?” Blake asks with a smile. 

Mickey is in anything but a joking mood. “I  _ think _ ,” he responds, taking a step forward, looking Blake dead in the eyes, “that you might think slummin’ it with us seems like some sort of community service or adventure for the fuckin’ biography, but when the goin’ gets tough, you’re gonna fuckin’ leave.  _ That’s  _ what I think.” He takes another step forward, and Blake’s eyes widen, but he stays grounded. “Our family isn’t a fuckin’ pro bono case. It’s too fucked for you.”

“Mickey,  _ stop, _ ” Mandy pleads after a stretch of stunned silence.

Mickey’s gaze flits to her, and he thinks maybe he sees tears threatening to spill. 

“Jesus, Mick,” Colin says tentatively, and Iggy stares at him in guarded confusion.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Blake asks, all friendliness gone from his voice. “What, are you the only one allowed to have a happy relationship?”

Mickey laughs, almost crazed. “Happy relationship? You think you know shit? Yeah, happy, when he’s not out fuckin’ other guys like I don’t exist and givin’ your  _ brother _ private lap dances for cash twelve fuckin’ times a night.” Blake’s mouth drops open, a look of horror in his eyes. 

_ Yeah, that’s what I thought. _

“Mickey…” Ian interjects weakly. “Why would you…”

His heart stops beating, then. Maybe he didn’t have one to begin with. He can’t really place how it felt in his chest, just minutes before.

“Nicest person you ever met, huh?” he mutters, refusing to turn to look at the boy behind him. “I’m sleepin’ at Leo’s,” he spits out, his hands shaking. He can’t do this now, can’t talk without venom slipping out. His feeling is punctuated by the next thing that falls from his mouth, as he pushes past his siblings to head for the door, and turns halfway to meet Ian’s eyes. 

“And, Ian? Why don’t you try not to fuck anybody while I’m gone?”

The look of set rage and hurt on Ian’s face leaves him feeling hollow, but he turns and leaves all the same.

* * *

_ January 29th, ‘16 _

_ I found a place where I could pick guys up regularly enough and now I’ve made enough to put some money away and to take a Greyhound to Indianapolis. It was only about a four hour ride, but now that I’m here, I feel so lost. What the hell am I doing? Do I really want this to be my life? I watch all these people cycle through, all these faces. There’s too many people in the world. What the hell did humans do when they didn’t know how big the world was? In their minds, it could have kept going, and going, and going. Or, maybe they thought the world was only as big as what they knew. But how could they stand on top of a mountain, and look out at how far the world expands, and not feel terrified? Hopeless. Inconsequential. We’ve condensed it, now. Cut the world into segments, so we feel like there’s a difference to be made. We have cities so we can create worlds within worlds, neighborhoods so we can feel like we’re making progress when we leave. I want so badly to matter. To be happy is to accept that you exist without meaning. Or to never become aware of it. Because we can never really accept it, can we? People say that something or someone is their reason for living, or whatever, but it isn’t, is it? That’s not accepting meaninglessness. We’re all just very deluded, and I guess that’s alright if you don’t think about it too much. I want to find something to make me deluded like that, again. It used to be the military, and school. The prospect of college. Sports. I really miss sports. I never got to play basketball.  _

_ I could go back to Chicago and not tell my family, but what would I do? I would be just as lost and alone as I am out here. Better to move forward than backwards. _

* * *

 

“Fuck,” Mickey sighs out after a few minutes of contemplative, silent walking. “ _ Fuck _ .”

He’s trying desperately to wrap his mind around the progression of the night, but it all seems to blur together. His buzz is long gone, leaving a heavy, tired feeling behind his eyes. About forty minutes ago, he was perfectly happy. It feels like a year has passed.

Being with Ian feels like a rollercoaster. Up and down and left and right, never really settling in one place, going so goddamn fast into everything. He’s brought it on himself, he realizes. Encouraged it. Bought into some sort of  _ love at first sight  _ ideal. Infatuated to the point of blindness.

Mickey wishes he could hear the ocean from this street, so maybe the night wouldn’t be so goddamn quiet. Wishes there were still fireworks, or parties blasting, people laughing. Anything to make the walk less solitary. To remind him that he isn’t the only person in the world. Maybe it would take the gravity out of the situation in front of him. Remind him that he really just doesn't fucking matter.

He knocks on Leo’s door, a few blocks down, and tries to muster a smile when the disgruntled man opens it.

“It’s one in the goddamn morning, whatever you want--” Leo stops dead when he realizes who it is. “Mickey?”

“Hey,” Mickey greets, scratching his nose nervously. “Can I stay here, tonight? Just tonight.”

“Trouble at home, kid?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

Leo rubs his forehead tiredly, and sighs. “Sure. Tonight. Just be quiet, kids are sleeping.” 

“‘Course.”

Leo ushers him inside, directing him to the kitchen table, and fills a glass of water, setting it down in front of Mickey and then sitting across from him.

“So?” Leo asks when Mickey takes a few grateful gulps.

“So, what?” Mickey responds, wiping away excess water with the back of his hand.

“Are you going to tell me what the fuck you are doing at my house in the middle of the night, or am I going to have to make up my own story?”

Mickey sighs, takes another drink. Leo waits. “I think I fucked up,” he finally says.

“Yes, probably,” Leo agrees, and ignores the look Mickey shoots him. “How?”

“You know that guy I’m dating?”

“The tall redhead that you disappear with on your break?”

“Yeah, that’s him. We’ve been a thing for not even a fucking...month. I think I let everything move too fast.” Mickey stares down at the worn table beneath his hands. “Tricked myself into thinking life could be like a fuckin’...romantic comedy. Or one of those books that you read that makes you  _ feel _ shit. That you think is like real life but then...you experience real life, right? And it’s not. Like anything you could read or see.” Mickey sucks in a breath, taps his fingers lightly on the table. “He wants to fuck other people. While still sleeping in my fucking bed. And I was too scared of looking too...intense to say no." His eyebrows draw together, and he feels the need to correct himself. "Well, also because I’d just jerked some other guy off, so the whole thing looked like my idea in the first place... Anyway, now I practically called him a slut, and I think I fucked it. I think I ruined it.”

“Kid…” Leo starts in a sympathetic tone, eyes scrutinizing. “I didn’t peg you for such a fucking pussy.”

Mickey blinks at him in surprise. “Fuckin’ excuse me?”

“You know,” Leo begins, ignoring Mickey’s sputtering. “I knew my wife for about two months before I proposed to her. And you know what she said at first?  _ Absolutely not. _ So I asked again a month later, and again another month later, and she finally said yes. It’s been fifteen years, kid. Still happy as a clam. Sometimes you just know.”

“That example seems pretty extreme,” Mickey dismisses.

“Well, you wanted real life, right? That’s real. This is life, and that’s real. Sometimes, Mickey, you meet somebody, and it makes sense. And then everybody else just doesn’t stack up. Doesn’t fucking matter how fast or slow you realize it. And if you can’t accept that, and tell that boy how you feel before you fuck it up forever, then you’re a pussy. No arguments about it. It’s  _ your _ fault that he’s fucking other people if you don’t tell him that you don’t want him to, so sleep tonight, and fix it in the morning. Yeah?”

Mickey stares at him, taken aback. “Just fucking...tell him? I don’t fuckin’ know how to do that.”

“It’s easy. You go to him, and you tell him ‘I don’t want you to fuck other people.’” Leo spreads his hands, daring Mickey to ask another question.

“Yeah, alright, say I do that,” Mickey proposes, “say I do just fuckin’ that, and he leaves. What then?”

Leo shrugs and leans back in his chair. “Then you must learn not to waste energy on people who care less than you do.”

“I thought I did know that,” Mickey says quietly.

“No, you just haven’t cared before, kid. You got a heart big as the goddamn Atlantic Ocean, you just haven’t had the chance to show it. I see it in you.”

Mickey shudders out a breath. “Yeah, well, I said some pretty shitty stuff.”

“You always do, when you love somebody.”

“Right after he trusted me all that shit…” Mickey leans his elbows on the tabletop, and lets his forehead fall to his hands. “Fuck, how the fuck am I supposed to show I can handle  _ bipolar  _ whatever the fuck if I just snap like that?”

“What was that?”

“What? Bipolar?” Mickey nods into his hands. “Yeah, he was kicked outta boot camp for having it. His mom had it, did some pretty crazy shit.” He lifts his head, looks at Leo, eyebrows drawing together. “What if I can’t handle this? All this?”

“Kid, you’re nineteen years old and you’ve already been drug halfway through hell. If falling in love is the worst thing that happens to you from this point on, I’d call you pretty goddamn lucky.”

“No, I mean,” Mickey rubs at his eyes and his vision swims. He knows he's saying too much, but, half-delirious from stress, he doesn't give a shit. “He’s a runaway. From Chicago. What if I’m doin’ the wrong thing, keepin’ him here when he might need fuckin’...help, or something? I don’t know shit about bipolar, and I’m all he’s got in this shithole city. What if…” his gaze falls to rest on the blank wall across the room. “What if he needs  _ medicine  _ or some shit. Medicine that he can’t afford, I can’t afford.”

“You can’t burn down bridges before you even cross ‘em, Mickey. How about you start by sleeping, and apologizing tomorrow? Can’t worry about sticking it out through thick and thin if he doesn’t even want to speak to you.”

Mickey lets out a reluctant laugh. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Leo reaches across the table and pats his arm. “I know. Go to bed, amico. Couch is all yours.” He stands, chair scraping on the rough tile, eyes much kinder than Mickey has ever seen before.

“Leo?” Mickey calls after the man, who turns in question. A crooked smile twists onto Mickey’s face. “Thanks, man.”

Leo waves him off, a smile spreading on his face, too. “Yeah, yeah. You better not leave work early tomorrow, though. As payment.”

Mickey winces, nods. “Right. That’s fair.”

Leo grants him a small smile. “Night, kid.”

“Night.”

* * *

 

_ February 1st, ‘16 _

_ There aren’t too many gay bars in Indianapolis, but there’s enough. I picked up a very interesting man last night, that paid a lot for me to dance for him and nothing else. He said he’ll find me later this week before he leaves town, but I doubt I’ll see him again. _

_ I really don’t mind the work I’m doing. It’s not glamorous, but it really just feels like being with Ned. And honestly, there isn’t much I wouldn’t do for money right around now.  _

_ This is all the gross reality. I ran, and I’m not having some big adventure. I’m not meeting the love of my life, or reaching spiritual enlightenment. I’m sucking guys off for money half the time and starving the other half. I sleep in a shelter at night, but it’s still cold outside during the day. I don’t have anything to do with myself, no way to grow or progress. No purpose or end goal. The buzzing is back in my head and I’m terrified of the day it gets louder again. Or goes away completely. That’s the reality.  _


	13. Chapter 13

_From: Mandy_

_8:43 AM_

_asshole, you really fucked up_

Mickey’s been staring at the text, slumped sideways on Leo’s couch, for two straight minutes, anxiety flooding through his veins.

He has no fucking clue how to even _begin_ to fix this mess.

Maybe he isn’t surprised things have gotten messy so fast; nothing’s ever cut and dry, nothing is ever fucking easy, but he never expected _himself_ to be the one to fuck up first. Maybe that’s selfish, giving himself too much credit. Or maybe it was naive to believe everything would stay docile and perfect until Ian decided to go back home. That they would say their goodbyes and part ways with only happy memories.

Maybe, Mickey thinks, he should let Ian hate him now. That way, the situation won’t grow more complex. They won’t subscribe to some illusion of _pulling through_. Ian will harden, they’ll both be heartbroken, but at least it will be simple. They’ll be over, Ian can blow wherever the fucking wind takes him, and Mickey will stay put, like always.

The words of Mandy’s text melt together as Mickey’s heart thuds back to life in his chest. He hasn’t felt it since last night, he realizes again. The sharp sting in his eardrums with every pulse leaves him wishing it had just fucked off and died for good.

Leo’s words from last night swim, blurry, through his mind. They had seemed so comforting, so inspirational. Now, in the clear, real morning, they just seem like another mirage.

Maybe he is just a pussy, but he should say goodbye now. This feeling, whatever the fuck it is, obsession, infatuation, God forbid _love,_ is too painful to be worth it. It must be.

Ian, ultimately, plans to leave, anyway. And why wouldn’t he? Everybody leaves.

Everybody just fucking leaves.

His finger hovers over the call button for a few dead seconds before he presses it and holds the phone to his ear.

It only rings twice before his sister picks up.

“What the fuck, Mickey?”

He winces at Mandy’s incredulous tone. “Listen, Mands--”

“Don’t even fuckin’ try it, asshole. You fucked up hard.”

“Yes, I know, Jesus. Everyone has made that real fuckin’ clear,” he grimaces. “You think I don’t know that?”

The other ends is silent for a few moments, until Mandy breaks it with a terse sigh. “ _Fuck_ , Mick. Why can’t you ever keep your mouth shut?”

“That bad?” Mickey asks, bracing himself.

“Well, Blake left, so at least you were right,” Mandy answers quietly. “Don’t really wanna stay with a guy that’s such a...sensitive pussy.”

“Sorry. Really. I shouldn’t have flipped.”

Mandy sighs again. “I know you’re just calling to ask about Ian, Mick. You don’t really care about Blake.”

“Hey. You’re my sister,” Mickey argues.

“That doesn’t mean that you care more about my fucked relationship than your fucked relationship. Even if you’re the one that fucked both.”

Mickey can’t muster the energy to disagree. “So, on a scale of fixable to fuckin’ dead to him, where am I at?”

“I don’t know, Mickey,” Mandy says, defeatedly. “I just know you shouldn’t have stormed out like that. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t say much. And he was gone this morning. No fucking clue where he went.”

Mickey’s eyebrows draw together. “He was gone?”

“Yeah. No word, nothin’. G-o-n-e,” she spells out. “Like the wind.”

“Fuck.”

“D’you know where he might go?”

Mickey racks his brain for any idea. “I don’t know. He runs every morning. Real fuckin’ early. Sometimes doesn’t come back ‘til after I go to work. To see the sunrise or some shit, I don’t know.”

“To see the sunrise? I guess opposites really do attract,” Mandy laughs.

“Mandy, are you going to help me with this or not?” Mickey barks out.

“Help you? Fuck no, I’m still pissed at you. And I have to work in twenty minutes.” There’s shuffling on the line, the sound of a spoon clinking against something.

“I’m gonna break up with him, Mands,” Mickey announces softly, picking absently at the skin on the side of his thumb.

The silence this time is much longer, all sounds of activity ceasing.

“What the fuck?” Mandy finally exclaims, and Mickey senses that if she were sitting next to him, he would have just received a swift punch to the arm. A muffled voice (presumably Iggy) asks something in the background. “He says he’s gonna break up with Ian,” she informs Iggy with a hint of disgust.

“Mandy, don’t fuckin’ tell him what I’m saying,” Mickey protests.

“Don’t you dare break Ian’s heart, Mickey, I swear to God. He is so fucking good for you, the whole family likes him, you will _not_ break up with him. He pays _rent._ ” Mandy pauses, listens to whatever Iggy contributes. “Iggy says if you kick him out, he’ll kick your ass.”

Mickey snorts. “Kick _my_ ass? He fuckin’ wishes.”

“I’m putting you on speaker.”

“No, don’t fuckin’ put me on--”

He’s too late, and the noises of the room come into better focus.

_I yearn to be an only child._

“Dumbass, why’re you tryin’ to fuck up somethin’ good?”

Mickey nearly groans at the sound of his brother’s voice. “Fuck off, Iggy, it’s none of your fuckin’ business.”

“Yes it fuckin’ is,” Iggy answers. “Ian pays part of the rent, which means I don’t have to get a job.”

“Iggy, you’re getting a job whether he breaks up with Ian or not. Which he’s not going to,” Mandy cuts in.

“Can both of you get off my fuckin’ back? It’s not your fuckin’ choice.”

“Well, it should be, because you’re makin’ the wrong one,” Iggy says.

“Mick, you’re the happiest I’ve ever seen you when you’re with him. I don’t know if I ever _saw_ you smile before Ian. Why the fuck do you want to cut it off all of a sudden?” Mandy asks.

Mickey exhales, and wonders if he should tell the truth, or make up some bullshit so it can all just go more smoothly.

“He fucks other guys,” he finally produces, weakly. The defense sounds brittle, even to his own ears.

Iggy laughs. “You _told_ him he could fuck other guys. Don’t try to put that shit past me, _I_ was the one who talked you down off a fuckin’ ledge when that happened. Don’t blame him because you’re a pussy who can’t tell him no.”

“What’s with everybody gettin’ off on callin’ me a pussy?” Mickey exclaims, to no real benefit.

“Because you _are_ a pussy, Mick, Jesus. I understand you _care_ about him and that scares you for some fucked up reason, but that’s really not his fault. He didn’t ask for any of this,” Mandy tells him plainly. “ _You_ took him in. _You_ came out, _you_ started going out with _him_ . He sleeps in _your_ bed because _you_ want him to. _You_ fucked some other guy, first.”

“Wh--”

“Don’t think Ian hasn’t mentioned that, you’re not the only person in the world he talks to,” Mandy spits out. Then, her voice softens. _“_ Look, Mick, I’m not saying he doesn’t feel the same way towards you. I’m not saying you have to back off, or something. I’m saying that you’ve done a lot for him, shit that he never _once_ asked you to do. Because you like him. He makes you happy, or whatever, so you do those things for him. And that says something. But if you don’t do something for yourself, grow some balls, and tell him the truth, he’s gonna leave and you’re gonna regret it.”

“Fuck,” Mickey breathes out, and he realizes he’s going to have to be honest. “Alright. Fuck, fine, the open relationship shit isn’t the reason I’m ending it.”

The line goes quiet in surprise.

“What the fuck else is there?” Mandy finally asks.

“I’m...he’s going back to Chicago, at some point. I don’t want to have to...say goodbye,” he says slowly, nervously. His throat is tight, the truth clinging to his teeth with burning protest.

“Mickey…” Mandy begins after a short pause. She sounds sympathetic, almost as if she understands, but still plans to protest.

Iggy beats her to it. “That has to be the _dumbest_ shit I have ever heard you say.”

“Hey, fuck you, I’m tryin’ to be honest, here.”

“Yeah, well, all I’m hearin’ is pussy shit. People have summer flings or whatever the fuck all the time, Mickey. It’s nothin’ to be a fuckin’ _girl_ over.”

“I’m not bein’ a girl!” Mickey argues loudly. He’s grateful that Leo and his family seem to have vacated the premises before he woke up, because the volume of his voice has been steadily increasing throughout the phone call. “I’m lookin’ out for myself.”

“No, you’re not. You caught feelings, and now you’re afraid you’re gonna be a heartbroken fuckin’ mess when he leaves. Pussy shit.”

“What the fuck ever, douchebag. I don’t need your approval to end it,” Mickey mutters, sitting up from the couch and rubbing at his eyes. He winces when his boxers crinkle the smallest bit from the chlorine last night, and the stimulus brings the memories flooding back.

Ian’s laugh as they splashed each other. The taste of his lips. The warm feeling in Mickey’s chest, so commonly associated with _him_ nowadays.

_Fuck._

“If you end it, I’m staying friends with him,” Mandy declares.

“Me too,” Iggy agrees. “He’s fun to smoke with. Gets all these batshit ideas, he’s hilarious.”

“You won’t get a moment's peace from him, Mick. I’ll let him sleep in _my_ bed.”

“If you both like him so much, why don’t _you_ fuck him?” Mickey shoots back.

“What are you, twelve years old?” Mandy groans.

“You’d kill us in cold fuckin’ blood if we even thought about it and you know it, Mick,” Iggy says.

“What’re you guys talkin’ about?” Colin’s distant voice calls. “Is that Mickey on the phone?”

“ _Don’t_ fucking tell--”

“Mickey wants to dump Ian because he’s too scared of getting his heart broken,” Mandy informs him, and Colin’s noise of protest intermingles with the sound of a chair scraping against the tile.

“What the fuck? Don’t fuckin’ break up with the stripper, Mick, he pays _rent._ I was thinkin’ about gettin’ a new _microwave_ with that extra money. Plus, if he leaves, who’s gonna pay for Iggy’s freeloadin’ ass?”

“That’s what I said!” Iggy replies with a crackling laugh.

“ _Nobody_ , because Ian’s not leaving, and Iggy’s getting a job,” Mandy explains above her brothers’ laughter.

“Why the _fuck_ would you want to dump someone who looks like _that_ , anyway?” Colin snickers out. “Lookin’ the way _you_ do? If I was dating a girl that hot, I’d milk that shit until she got a restraining order.”

“Alright, I’m hangin’ up,” Mickey snarls, irritation blooming. “Thanks for nothin’, assholes.”

Mickey ends the call as violently as you can end a call on an iPhone (an underwhelming action that _really_ makes him miss slamming the phone down on the receiver), and falls back onto the couch with a groan.

He refuses to humor the thought that his siblings could be right, and instead grasps for any conceivable justification for his decisions.

_Life was a lot simpler before Ian._

_Life was also a lot more boring._

_Saying goodbye now would be easier than saying goodbye later._

_But Ian would still be here, in the same city, for a while. Here, but gone._

_I just came out, I shouldn’t tie myself down._

_I have no interest in anybody else._

He wills himself to find _any_ argument that doesn’t have a more enticing rebuttal, but any further attempt to support his own tentative decision only turns into a string of nonsensical curses.

“Fuck. _Fuck._ ”

It’s a quarter past nine when he looks at the black and white clock on the living room wall, giving him about an hour before he has to get ready to go to work. He figures his itinerary isn’t too complex: five minutes to get home, five minutes to shower, fifty minutes to nurse a panicked frenzy. Just another Thursday.

On the walk home, he can’t keep his mind from skimming over every conversation he’s had with Ian, to try to get some idea of where he might have gone.

His mind only briefly suggests the possibility that Ian might have left for good.

He quickly pushes that aside and focuses on the rhythm of his own footsteps, instead. Always so small. Minute. Taking him another step forward, forward, forward, but never _forward_. He’s been stuck in the same place, he knows, for nineteen years. Nineteen goddamn years.

And in the space of a month, Ian has unwittingly pushed him to do and realize things that he might have never even considered to be possible. Ian has taken his hand and gently coaxed him into taking those bigger leaps.

The thought brings a quiet part of the conversation from the night before rushing back into his mind.

_Would you go with me?_

Fuck, maybe he should. But it’s always just those little steps. Those little, plodding, necessary steps. He marches from one workday to another, this bill to the next, that problem to this problem, never a change in scenery, never a shift in company.

Maybe that’s why he’s fallen so fast. Maybe because Ian is a new flare in the sun, a new pocket of the universe, that he never knew he needed.

But to pick up and move to a different world, somebody else’s world, on a whim? For an idea? A distant hope?

He’s got something steady here, in Azurra. But he wonders, when Ian leaves, when Ian packs up and goes home, how will it feel? After the sting fades, the goodbyes are long over. Will it feel the same? Will anything fucking feel the same?

His bed, for example. Will he appreciate the new space to stretch in, or will it just feel cold? Will he briefly wake up every morning at dawn with the phantom hope that Ian will be there, trying to sneak out for his run, or will he just sleep right through it? Will he appreciate actually getting to _eat_ on his break, or will it just feel fucking empty? Just too much time to think, too much time to miss what was and what could have been.

His stomach churns as he realizes with increasing hopelessness how fucked he is, either way.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, jarring him out of his thoughts, and he pulls up the text at the next crosswalk.

_From: Mandy_

_9:22 AM_

_saw ur boy b/w queen st and 32nd_

He blinks at the screen, types out a response, crosses the street without glancing up.

_doing what?_

It’s only a few seconds before he gets an answer.

_i don’t know i didn’t stalk him you fucking creep_

Mickey rolls his eyes as he approaches their house.

_fuck you_

He pockets his phone again and sucks in a breath as he treads up the stairs of the front porch and into the house.

The best thing, he figures, is to let it breathe. Get cleaned up, work his shift, see if Ian comes home on his own. Maybe the fast pace of his job will clear his head, leave him thinking rationally when it’s over. Maybe _then_ he’ll have some fucking clue what to do.

* * *

_February 7th, ‘16_

_People pass through so quickly. It’s such a change of pace from home. Everyone stayed the same there. Nobody left, nobody leaned. But now, everyone I meet leaves within a day. It’s almost convenient. Make one first impression, then smoothly sail along before it gets too messy. I don’t know if I’ll be able to enjoy normal life again if I ever go back home. Not that I enjoy this life. Just, by the time I go home, I think I’ll have forgotten how to form long-lasting friendships completely. Though, did I ever really know? I don’t think anybody ever really knows._

_Anyway, all this preamble to say: that guy actually came back, and offered me a job. He owns a traveling adult entertainment troupe and his last dancer quit, so he’s asking me to take their place. I said yes without even thinking. I’ll have a warm place to stay, food to eat. Maybe even a constant set of people. To counteract the constant shifting of the landscape. And, I’ll be getting paid to do something I like to do. Fuck, I probably would have said yes if he had offered me a job digging ditches if it gets me out of sucking Indiana dick for a while._

_My new boss really is a nice guy. Maybe a little bit slimy, but he’s very respectful, and I’m going to be paid well. He didn’t even proposition me. I didn’t have to fuck him in any fashion. That’s monumental._

_I’m supposed to be ready to leave tomorrow morning, and I’m really just excited. Maybe it will be shifty and dingy, but it will get me further away from Chicago. It’s another step forward, out of this weird dead space I’m hanging in. Maybe this time, if I crash, I’ll be in a place that won’t throw me out when I come out the other side. Maybe it won’t even happen again, if I’m doing something I enjoy. Maybe it was the pressure of the army that caused me to crumble like that._

_Either way, things are looking up, in the best way they can for someone like me._

* * *

The day is choppy and customers are relentless, and Mickey’s mood is not improved when his break comes and there's no sign of his boyfriend.

It’s not that he’s surprised. Maybe a bit disappointed.

He leans against the wooden barrier of the boardwalk, cigarette balanced between his fingers, empty gaze on the glimmering horizon, and he finds himself right back where he started at the end of May, the day he met Ian.

He cringes at himself when the green flash of the restless water stretching out beyond him only brings thoughts of jade kaleidoscope eyes.

_I’m hopeless._

He takes a draw, but the smoke doesn’t seem to bring much relief.

“Penny for your thoughts?” a clear, accented female voice asks beside him.

He rolls his eyes, puffs on the cigarette. “Fuck off,” he releases with the smoke, not looking in her direction.

“Just trying to be nice,” she purrs. “You seem far away.”

“You asked for my thoughts,” Mickey answers, looking over at her. She’s thin, with olive skin, curly black hair, harlequin eyes. She’s got expensive whatever the fuck draped over _astronomically_ expensive whatever the fuck, and she smiles at him in a way that makes him want to internally scream. He recognizes that expression; he does _not_ have time for that expression. “And you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, princess.”

She pouts, a calculated action that may have spent anybody else reeling. He just gazes at her with disdain for a moment, then barks out a laugh, looking back out to the ocean and raising his cigarette to his lips, only to have it plucked from his fingers by the girl next to him.

“No--fuck, come on, those are expensive,” he protests, but she just grins and takes a drag. He sighs in exasperation. “What the fuck exactly do you want from me?” he demands as she daintily blows the smoke in the other direction and hands the cigarette back.

“To get to know you,” she answers with a shrug, leaning forward to imitate his casual position. “So you can get to know me.”

He snorts. “Well, sweetheart, _I’ve_ got a boyfriend,” he informs her with a sarcastic smile, reveling in the way her eyes bug out. Maybe he enjoys pulling the ‘ _I’m very gay’_ card too much. Mostly because it seems to come as such an immense _shock_ to everybody. “But my brother, Iggy, he just got outta prison,” he continues with false sincerity. “I’m sure he’d be _itchin’_ to get to know you. I can call him, get him down here. Gets pretty lonely in the joint.”

She stammers out a few offended syllables, and taking a step back. “You are g--”

“Yes,” he cuts her off firmly, around his cigarette. “Very. Muy homo. You get me?”

She scoffs and turns without another word, stomping up the boardwalk like he’d just called her a fat slut. He turns back to the ocean, exhales a plume of smoke, and smiles in spite of himself.

He remembers a time, not long ago at all, that he would have accepted her proposition with lackluster intent, frustrated and confused as to why he couldn’t find it in himself to _want_ it more. Quietly wondering if he was broken, if something was wrong, that he would rather die alone than settle down with a girl. Wondering if he was just ungrateful, that he was the one that girls always liked, but he could never feel that intense _feeling_ that his brothers always talked about.

It makes sense, now. His smile widens the smallest bit, and he places the cigarette back in his mouth to stifle it. Maybe it’s messy with Ian now, but at least everything else finally makes sense.

Even if Ian leaves, he thinks, maybe things will still make a bit more sense than they did before.

He feels the air shift beside him, and he realizes he’s not alone. Again. “Jesus fuck, I told you, I’m not--” he turns to his right, expecting to see the girl again, but is greeted by the very source of his internal contention.

Ian smiles, weakly. “Hey.”

Mickey stares at him, paralyzed with the sudden rush of nervousness that he thought he had ironed out. He turns back to the horizon, finishes the cigarette in one more, stunted inhale. Briefly wonders when nicotine became so mild. “Hey.”

“On your break?” Ian asks, leaning over the railing beside him, eyes raking over the people bustling around the beach.

“Five more minutes,” Mickey answers, putting out the cigarette on the barrier and throwing it aside. He leans against the railing, and swallows down a shiver when the wind shifts to blow from the east. He sniffs, squints as the sun emerges from a cloud. “Where’d you disappear to?” he inquires.

“Went for a run,” Ian answers simply, shrugging. “Clears my head and shit.”

“You found the best place for the sunrise or whatever?”

“Nah. Startin’ to think this shithole city doesn’t have one of those. Sun risin' over the ocean looks the same everywhere,” Ian says.

Mickey chews his lip, his skin buzzing. “You stayin’?” he asks, quietly, after a moment.

“Mickey,” Ian dictates. Mickey’s eyes snap to the boy’s beside him, and linger when they meet. “I need you to be straight with me, right now.”

“Hm.” It’s not exactly an agreement, or a refusal, but the request resonates in Mickey’s chest as a moment to seize.

“What do you want from me? Do you want me to stop seeing other people?”

Ian asks it so fluidly, casually almost, but the hint of tightness that suggests the answer matters gives Mickey the urgency to answer honestly.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He refuses to lift his eyes from the beach below them, now, but something heavy peels its way off his chest, now that he’s finally said it. “But that’s not really my fuckin’ choice, is it?”

Ian chuckles quietly, and rolls his head heavenward. Mickey watches him, the ghost of a smile twitching onto his own face.

“What?” he asks, pushing Ian lightly on the arm.

Ian smiles into the blue of the sky, and looks back down towards the beach. “You’re just so different from the last guy I was with. In a, uh--” he pauses, smiles at the ground, and then glances sheepishly over at Mickey. “In a good way, y’know?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ian affirms, balancing an elbow on the flat top of the barrier and resting his chin in his hand. There’s a pause of comfortable quiet, the ocean all they need to fill the space. “Can I ask you something?” Ian inquires softly.

“Jury’s out on whether or not I’ll answer,” Mickey jokes half-heartedly, and Ian grants him a small laugh. “What is it?” Mickey prompts more sincerely.

“Why, uh--” Ian pauses, swallows, eyes glued to the shifting crowd below. “Why’d you fuck that other guy if you wanted it to just be us?”

That leaves Mickey blinking, forced to ponder a question that he had been asking himself for weeks. “Fuck, man, I don’t know,” he finally admits. “I’m a jealous, angry dumbass, I guess. The bartender said somethin’ when you went into the private room...I don’t know, it was fuckin’ dumb. I saw red.”

“Why didn’t you say something, before?” Ian asks.

“Because,” Mickey begins, “ _I_ fooled around with somebody else first, right? Couldn’t really do that and then turn around and demand you suck my dick and my dick only. Wasn’t fair.”

Ian sucks in a breath, and Mickey shifts his weight to his other foot. He has no idea how much time he has left. He doesn’t really give a shit.

“Well, if we’re being honest,” Ian relates, “I only said that to piss you off, because I was pissed off. Which was shitty of me. I didn’t really wanna fuck other people, either.”

“Fuck,” Mickey sighs. He fights the urge to light another cigarette. “We’re both shitty people.”

Ian shrugs. “There’ve been shittier. At least we’re willing to admit we’re shitty.”

Mickey figures it’s the closest to an exchange of apologies that they’re going to get. A tension in his demeanor that he didn’t realize was there seems to fade a bit, and he leans the smallest bit closer to Ian. He has no conceivable _idea_ what he was thinking, talking about breaking up with Ian, now that he's here, warm and real and _good_ beside him. He watches the ebb and flow of the coast, a rhythm that matches his breathing, and the feeling of the sun on his skin is sudden and comforting.

“Hey, so…” Ian trails off, his hands falling to grip the barrier tightly. “I’m thinkin’ about quitting the club.”

Mickey turns to him in surprise. “Are you? Why?”

“All it’s done is cause problems between us,” Ian explains. He huffs out a breath, his eyebrows draw together. “And I’m getting tired of...doing work like that. Being with you has made me think about some things.”

“Yeah?”

_Fuck it._

He pulls out another cigarette, lights it in one flick of his thumb. He hands it to Ian after he takes a lungful, and he wonders if the last cigarette was just a dud, or if that buzz in his temples is coming from something more tangible than nicotine.

“I think I’m actually worth more than sex and shit,” Ian elaborates around the cigarette. “Like, maybe I could do something with my life. Instead of waiting until my body deteriorates and I’m not hot anymore, y’know?”

Mickey _highly_ doubts that will ever happen. He should probably be jumping for joy at this information, he acknowledges, but one thing gives him reservations. “You’re not just doin’ this for me, right? You actually want to quit?”

Ian smiles at him, and nudges him. “Yeah, I’m doin’ it for you. But I’m doin’ it for me, too, because I want to. For, uh...for us, I guess.” They exchange a glance that leaves Mickey fighting back a blush.

“Well,” he says, tearing his eyes away and clearing his throat. “I could probably get you a job at Leo’s. If you don’t mind the, uh...bangin’ the boss stigma.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Don’t give yourself too much credit. Leo’s the boss.”

Mickey huffs out a laugh. “Hey, fuck you. I run that shithole. Leo just stands back in the kitchen sweatin’ and yellin’ at everybody.”

“Right, so...the boss.”

They burst into laughter, after a second, and a loud voice from across the boardwalk causes them both to turn.

“ _Your break ended five minutes ago, you little shit!_ ”

“Speak of the devil,” Mickey mutters, running a hand through his hair, and Ian laughs again. “I’ll, uh, talk to him about it. He’s a fuckin’ romantic, he’ll hire you.”

“Thanks, Mick,” Ian says, sincerely, through a wide smile.

Mickey pins his nametag back on, and fidgets uselessly with it to avoid Ian's eye. “So, uh, we’re good?” he mumbles shyly.

Ian leans forward and presses a light kiss to Mickey’s cheek. When he pulls away, Mickey regards the pizza joint with disdain, cursing its interference with the warmth flooding through his body.

“Yeah,” Ian assures. “We’re good. See you at home.” He throws Mickey one last, bright smile before he turns in the direction of Queen Street and sets off. Mickey watches him, entranced and glowing, until he melts into the rest of the crowd.

“Mickey, I will murder you where you fucking stand if you are not back in my restaurant in the next thirty seconds!” Leo yells again, attracting the disdainful glares of tourists and jarring Mickey out of his stupor. Leo glances around, at every one of them with a roll of his eyes. “What? Do you not want the authentic Jersey Shore experience? Fucking prudes.” He turns and pushes back into the shop, shaking his head, and Mickey grins as the feeling of Ian's lips on his skin lingers.

Maybe, he thinks. _M_ _aybe_ everything will just be kind of alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen. i was gonna make mickey break up with him. i was. i was gonna do it. i couldn't, though. i just want them to be young and dumb and in love.  
> comments are always fantastic!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i worked kinda long and hard on this chapter and i'm still not happy with it, but either way it gave me a literal headache so enjoy

“Well,” Ian sighs a week later as he drops down onto their bed, time of night cast aside. “Tonight was my last night. I am no longer a slut.”

Mickey smiles and reaches for him, finding that Ian is already scooting closer. “You were never a slut,” he answers sleepily, closing the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Ian’s back and pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

“Little bit of a slut,” Ian argues, shifting onto his back and tucking his arm beneath Mickey.

“Survivor,” Mickey mumbles out. “You and me, both. Ain’t bein’ a slut.”

“Survivor,” Ian repeats. “I can handle that.”

Mickey hums in agreement and settles against Ian’s chest. “So how you feelin’, Superstar? Ready to start slingin’ dough?”

“Depends,” Ian smirks. “Old guys gonna grab my ass and expect me to like it?”

Mickey grins into Ian’s skin. “Not if they don’t wanna lose a fuckin’ limb.”

They laugh quietly into the dark, with a hint of relief, and Mickey has to fight back the thought that this must be what love feels like.

This _must_ fucking be what it is.

Here he is, with everything his mother never had, everything he thought he’d never find. Every soft word and compromise and warm feeling, down to the letter.

Of course, he knows, it’s all an illusion to mask a controlled, impending doom. But fuck the illusion, and fuck the future, and fuck Armageddon as he knows it, what he feels is here and now and real. It’s real. The blood buzzing in his ears, in his veins, in the skin under Ian’s fingers, they’re all fucking proof of that. You don’t feel that alive, that flush, when something isn’t real. You don’t.

He feels he should say something, to confirm that the perfect, content haze of the room isn’t just in his head, because everything still feels tentative, like he never truly paid for fucking up.

He wants to ask about it, wants to talk about it again. Wants Ian to get angry, furious, _something_ that makes more sense than the calm, rational discussion they had to tie it up. Because Ian must have been angry. And in Mickey’s experience, when you’re angry, you show it.

Maybe he should be content that everything smoothed out so quickly. But he can’t shake the feeling that something is fucking wrong, _something_ is left unsaid or unseen. Like some sort of sign he’s too near-sighted to see. An omen he can’t decipher.

Though, then again, maybe everything will just be kind of alright.

He doesn’t say a word, then, just tries to count the rise and fall of Ian’s chest to the rhythm of his own pulse.

* * *

_February 20th, ‘16_

_It’s been awhile! I’ve just been so busy. It’s like a whole new family here. It’s all very strange, like I’ve entered a separate dimension where anything goes. It feels like it’s out of a movie or something, about circus freaks or the Burlesque._

_I dance and I get paid pretty well. I get fed, I have new friends. I never thought I’d be a fucking performer, but here I am._

_The main highlight, I’d say, is that I don’t have to fuck for money._

_My coworkers, La Famille as our manager calls us, are diverse and vastly interesting. They all have a story to tell. Sometimes I’m so wrapped up in hearing about their pasts that I forget I have a past of my own, when I’m asked about it._

_I was reading back through some of my old entries on my down time. I can’t believe I really went and joined a fucking circus._

_My stage name is_ _Joli Garçon, which is really fucking convenient, considering they called me Pretty Boy in boot camp. The world just runs in circles._

_I don’t really get what all the French is about, when our manager, Monsieur Kenney, is clearly of Irish or Scottish descent, with pale skin like mine. It makes the whole thing feel campy and fake, but then again, my tent mate can suck his own dick. If it takes a bit of French to class up the show, I won’t complain._

_It’s funny. Lately I’ve been wondering if I’m ever actually going to go home. It’s always seemed so set in my mind. When I was at boot camp, I planned on going home when I finished. When I was kicked out, I was constantly on the verge of just giving up and going back to Illinois. I just keep putting it off, telling myself it’s not time yet. When will it be time? I have no way of knowing what’s happening back home. It all feels behind glass. Like nothing’s real except here and now. Like nothing’s real but me. Maybe I’m not even real. Maybe the whole world revolves around one person, and I’m not that person. It’s all just so vast. Where is my home? Chicago? I don’t know. If I had a home, I wouldn’t be homeless, I guess. We’re packing up to leave Indiana the day after tomorrow, to head east for a little bit._

_I hope we hit the coast. I’ve never seen the ocean._

* * *

Everything will be alright.  

Mickey clings to that mantra in the coming weeks, when Ian starts at Leo’s, and they begin their journey into monogamy.

Everything seems good. Solid. They don’t fight, they’re always together, but something feels strange. Something feels different. Like a change is coming, like the shake of his hands when Ian kisses him means something more, now. It’s like their bodies know something that their minds don’t, an incomprehensible shift in energy that screams the end of the world as they know it. All rippling under a calm surface.

It’s bullshit. Mostly because Mickey can’t do a damn thing about it.

Half the time he’s convinced nothing’s worth anything; maybe money isn’t worth the work, life isn’t worth the pain, Ian isn’t worth this horrible, constant uncertainty.

Except, he is, isn’t he? That’s the fucked part, Mickey knows. That’s the fucked part.

It’s the second Sunday in July that Ian stops going to church. Mickey asks why.

“Found somewhere better to belong,” he answers, simply.

Mickey thinks it’s too sappy, but believes him. He feels similarly, after all.

* * *

_February 28th, ‘16_

_We crossed the Ohio border today. Two days ago, the police investigated our troupe, but Kenney’s slicker than I thought. They passed us over like we’re just a band of jugglers for children, not a show for sexual deviants. I don’t really understand the legal side of all this, but I do know that I’m underage with no identification, so I was more than relieved when we were cleared._

_My life is so strange and colorful and surreal. My fellow performers are, for the most part, hopeless drug addicts, and sometimes it’s tempting to try some of the shit out._

_But I can’t. I’m not sure why I still care, but I do. Maybe I’m clinging to some hope that, if I ever go home, I can go back to school, play sports again. Can’t play sports when you’re a cocaine addict, probably. It’s bad enough that I smoke._

_I miss sports! I really miss sports. I was fucking good at sports. I miss a lot of things. My family. I miss my church. The routine of it._

_Our ensemble has a chaplain, sort of like my base camp did, that holds a service every Sunday. You’d be surprised how many of us attend._

_I’ve found myself actually listening to the teaching, because it’s so different from any other church service I’ve attended before. There’s no stuffy singing or pulpit banging. The services are held outside, wherever we’ve stopped for the time. The chaplain talks about unity and the fluidity of God and the validity of our interpretations of Him._

_Some of us interpret an apathetic void, he says, and that’s alright. Some of us interpret a man, or a celestial body, or a voice on the wind._

_The man preaches poetry, a religion that actually makes sense. Not a religion at all, I suppose, because it isn’t organized and it’s hardly a system of belief. It’s acceptance._

* * *

They’re quieter, now. Their coexistence becoming more familiar each day. Ian writes a lot, Mickey notices. In fact, when they’re not working, he’s probably writing.

It’s mid-July that Mickey becomes curious enough to ask.

“What are ya writin’?” he asks, when they’re sitting on the floor against their bed, as Mickey tries to read a magazine and Ian scribbles away.

“Whatever comes to mind,” Ian answers absently, lifting the pencil from the paper to brush a strand of hair from his vision.

“You write stories, or somethin’?” Mickey asks, pretending to remain engrossed in the magazine. Ian quirks a smile, but doesn’t answer. Mickey looks over at him, and pokes him in the side, causing his smile to widen. “Poetry? Fuckin’ incantations?”

“I write what I write, alright?” Ian dismisses cooly, still not glancing up from the journal.

“It can’t be diary entries,” Mickey continues, against his better judgement. “Life around here is too fuckin’ boring.”

“What do you want me to say? That I write about you?” Ian smirks down into his journal.

“ _Please_ don’t,” Mickey answers, waving him off.

“Shall I compare thee,” Ian starts in a theatrical tone, dropping his pencil and stretching a hand out before him dramatically. “To a cloudy day.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Thou art more...stormy and more temperamental--”

“Ian, I will kick your ass.”

Ian grins. “See, you always _say_ that, but I never see you following _through_ \--” He’s cut off by his own laughter when Mickey shoves him solidly to the side. Mickey doesn’t resist when Ian pulls him down, too.

Mickey swallows down a grin at the boy below him. “Why the fuck do I put up with you?”

Ian smiles in return and places a hand on the back of Mickey’s neck, pulling him down gently to meet his lips in a soft reminder. Mickey smiles into the kiss, savoring the taste of Ian's lips.

_Oh, right._

Mickey’s mind kicks into overdrive when he realizes what he wants. Here, now, in an easy, uncomplicated moment. Not out of intense passion, or frustration, or any other overwhelming emotion.

“Hey,” he says, pulling away a hair. “You hear that?”

Ian’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “I don’t hear anything.”

Mickey grins, kisses Ian languidly again. “Exactly. House is empty.”

“Iggy’s gone?”

“Out job hunting.”

“ _That’s_ a miracle.”

Mickey barks out a laugh, and drops his head to connect their lips again, shifting to straddle Ian, their kiss unrushed. Ian’s fingers tangle themselves lightly in Mickey’s hair, the other hand resting on his thigh. It’s a few blissful minutes before Mickey reaches down to tug at the hem of Ian’s shirt insistently.

Ian pulls away with a smirk. “Mickey Milkovich, are you trying to steal my virtue?”

“You want me to stop?” Mickey asks with raised eyebrows, dipping down to place a kiss on Ian’s collarbone. “Go back to fuckin' writing?” he asks against the skin of Ian’s neck, pulling away again to look at him questioningly. He laughs when Ian surges up to crash their lips together again with a new heat, lowering them both back down as Mickey traces his tongue against Ian’s bottom lip.

“There’s a...bed,” Ian mumbles between breaths.

“Great observation,” Mickey answers with a grin, shifting to bite gently at Ian’s pulse.

Ian tugs Mickey’s head back by the hair, an action that makes his cock twitch painfully. “So get the fuck on it,” Ian orders, like Mickey should already have moved without being told.

Ian releases his hair, and Mickey has to keep himself from practically scrambling to stand in intense fear of looking desperate. Which he is. But that isn’t the point.

Ian stands after him and pulls his shirt over his head as Mickey sits down on the bed, tugging his own shirt off just in time before Ian follows him, settling between his legs and connecting their lips easily, as if they had never pulled away.

And there it is again, that slow warmth that hasn’t faded, that Mickey prays never fades, because he’s never felt anything like it and he doubts he ever will again, when Ian leaves.

The kiss deepens as Mickey wraps his legs around Ian’s waist, exhaling sharply when the first round of friction reaches his aching cock.

Ian manages to unbutton both of their jeans, a feat Mickey is too far gone to perform himself, and they pull back only long enough to remove the clothing, crashing back together the minute they’re off. They return to their previous position, the subtracted layer of fabric some new level of torture.

“You want me to fuck you?” Ian breathes, tracing the line of Mickey’s waistband with one finger.

Mickey pushes up against Ian, pulling him closer and grabbing at his hair possessively, his only way to maintain any control with the way his mind is spinning. “Yeah, I fuckin’ do.”

The look in Ian’s eye is unholy, and Mickey’s sure the thoughts it brings to his mind have just sentenced him to a deeper layer of hell than he was previously destined for.

Ian reaches for the bedside table, pulls lube and a condom from the drawer, and discards them on the bed next to them to crash down into another searing kiss.They tug themselves free of their boxers (fucking finally), and Ian places open-mouthed kisses down Mickey’s chest, leaving it up to the air to chill the fire left behind on his skin. Ian relishes his slow journey, ending at Mickey’s hipbone, and reaches for the bottle of lube, squirting a generous amount on his fingers and circling Mickey’s rim with his index finger as he places a kiss on the skin of his thigh.

“Alright?” he asks softly, and Mickey sputters out a laugh.

“You--fuck--really gonna ask me that now? Yes, it’s alright.” He pushes minutely against Ian’s finger, silently begging him to press in, gasping softly when Ian slowly complies, dipping his head to simultaneously swirl his tongue around the head of Mickey’s cock. He lets Mickey adjust for a few seconds, before adding a second finger, gently working them apart as he encloses Mickey’s dick with his lips and plunges down without teasing.

It’s too much, it’s fucking unbearable, absolutely white-hot painful, when Ian swallows him down and hooks his fingers to find his prostate at the same time.

“Fuck!” Mickey cries out, grasping for the sheets on either side. “Don’t-- I’ll--”

Ian seems to get the message, pulling his mouth away from Mickey’s cock, the missing friction debatably more excruciating. Ian adds one more finger, and Mickey winces through the slight burn.

“Alright, please just--” Mickey chokes out, the air taken from him when Ian removes his fingers and reaches for the condom, rolls it on, slicks himself up, and ducks down to kiss Mickey again, more slowly this time, like some sort of promise that maybe Mickey should understand, but he doesn’t, he fucking doesn’t, because all he can think about is that it’s going to happen, nothing’s going to stop it now, _fuck_ it’s going to happen.

When Ian pushes in, it hurts, but not like he expected. Ian dulls the ache with a bite to Mickey’s bottom lip, slowly, frustratingly, agonizingly pushing in until he finally bottoms out.

All of Mickey’s concerns, that he would be in too deep when this finally came, that he would never be able to let go, that this is it, the end of the line, the pièce de résistance, they’re all confirmed in full force when their breath intermingles and their eyes meet as Ian waits for that silent confirmation that everything is alright, a spell broken only when Mickey pulls him down for another kiss.

“Fuck,” Mickey breathes against Ian’s lips. “I’m alright.”

Ian moves, slowly at first, but with a set rhythm, their lips connecting until their breath becomes too harsh for comfort.

“Faster, Gallagher,” Mickey demands, shifting to wrap his legs around Ian again, the new angle changing everything as Ian thrusts in with more purpose, and a burst of electricity ripples up his spine.

“ _Shit,_ ” he gasps out. “ _Shit,_ Ian, fuck.”

It’s everything. It’s fucking everything, like he’s taken a hit of something powerful and heinously illegal, and now that he’s tasted it, felt the high, now that he knows, now that he’s clawing at the skin of Ian’s back as Ian’s teeth sink into his skin, winced against the burn of Ian inside him, now that he knows, he’ll kill to have it again.

But what Ian’s giving him, this gentle shit, like he’ll break, it’s leaving him dangling at the edge, not enough to push him over.

“Stop--fuck--with the pussy shit, man,” he groans, and Ian’s rhythm doesn’t relent, but Ian pushes up on one arm and raises an eyebrow at him, and _God_ he’s gorgeous. Mickey nearly forgets what he means to say, nearly succumbs to taking it however Ian will give it if it means he'll look like this, but no, he can’t be left here, on the precipice, for another fucking second. “ _Fuck_ me.”

“You’re...fucking bossy,” Ian chides between breaths, but he complies, as he marks his way down Mickey's neck, his thrusts becoming meticulously harder, deeper, still slow, but it’s perfect, it’s heaven, Mickey’s convinced no one has ever made anybody feel this way before. Ian’s lips abandon Mickey entirely, and he sits up, hooking his arms around Mickey’s legs to pound into him with more precision.

Mickey releases one strangled “ _Fuck”_ before he’s practically seeing white, reaching behind him to grip the headboard of the bed as he’s finally shoved over the cliff. Ian’s rhythm stutters for a second, and he can see the control slipping off of Ian’s face through the pulse of his own orgasm as Ian follows him over.

“ _Mick,_ ” Ian gasps out, his grip on Mickey’s thighs almost painful as he rides through it, his hips slowing after a few moments until he finally collapses with a sigh. It’s a couple seconds of quiet before Ian lifts his head from the crook of Mickey’s neck, sated, smiling softly at him and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. Then, he pulls out and falls to the side, removing the condom and padding across the room to throw it out, and Mickey already misses his weight, has to bite back begging him to fuck the clean-up and come back forever. Ian leaves the room for a second, returning with a towel and tossing it to Mickey, who nods gratefully, if a bit reluctantly, and wipes at the mess on his own stomach. Ian falls back onto the bed and reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table and lights up, placing a period at the end of one big, long statement.

“Well, shit,” Mickey laughs out in half-disbelief as he throws the towel aside.

“Yeah,” Ian agrees around his cigarette, looking especially pleased with himself.

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Shut up and give me that,” he says as he reaches for the cigarette.

“I didn’t say shit,” Ian defends with false-innocence as he surrenders the cigarette.

“You’ve got a shitty pokerface,” Mickey accuses, lifting the cigarette to his lips.

Ian doesn’t answer, just gazes at him with a smile that could melt a glacier.

“What?” Mickey demands after a second, offering him the cigarette back.

“Nothin’,” Ian answers, his smile unfaltering, ignoring the cigarette. “You’re just...great.”

Mickey stares at him, mouth slightly open, stuck on words he doesn’t know how to say. He finally settles on a bashful smile and a muttered, “Shut up.”

He takes one more drag before Ian reclaims the cigarette.

“God,” Ian sighs out. “Why didn’t we fuck sooner?”

Mickey laughs. “We live with three other people. We never had time.”

“No, we had time.” Ian grins at him and slings an arm over his shoulders. “You’re just a tease.”

“I’m not a fuckin’ tease,” Mickey mumbles as he leans into Ian, reaching up to intertwine his fingers with the hand draped over his shoulder.

Ian raises his eyebrows in an unconvinced manner, and releases a plume of smoke in the opposite direction.

Mickey smiles in spite of himself, decides maybe honesty wouldn’t be the worst thing right now. “I’m not. I’d just never been with a fuckin’...dude, before. You know.”

Ian blinks in surprise. “Are you tellin’ me I just took your virginity?”

Mickey scoffs. “I haven’t been a virgin since I was fourteen, Gallagher.”

Ian shakes his head, suppresses a smile. “Girls don’t count and you know it.”

Mickey stares at him for a moment, and then sighs in resignation. “Fine. You popped my...cherry.” He cringes at his own words, and Ian laughs loudly, squeezing his hand.

_I have been half in love with easeful death, I swear._

“Just don’t...make a big fuckin’ deal about it, alright?” Mickey insists over Ian’s laughter. “It ain’t a big deal.”

“Sure, sure,” Ian agree with feigned nonchalance, and Mickey braces himself for whatever dig comes next. “Though, Mick, you’re not gonna get all clingy now, are you?” Ian flashes him a shit-eating grin as Mickey shoves him by the side, nearly sending him toppling off the bed, if it weren't for the way he catches the boy’s wrist at the last second and pulls him back over into a smiling kiss.

Maybe the tension’s dissolved, now. Maybe that was it, the last missing link, one more step towards absolution. They know each other, now. There’s nothing left to hide. Harmony.

* * *

_March 28th, ‘16_

_Holy shit! I can’t believe I found this again. When we were on the move, it got lost in the jumble of shit in the van. I’ve been going insane not writing, but at the same time, I was performing every night and practicing new acts every day. But, it is with excitement and a bit of sadness that I announce to my little stretch of memory that I have officially resigned as Joli Garçon. I know, Kenney was sad, too. But they wanted to book it to Tennessee, and I don’t know much about Nashville, but I have no interest in the South. So, we split off, and when I was getting together my things, I found this journal underneath the far backseat of the van._

_I’m in Pennsylvania, now, on a bus to Philadelphia. I don’t know if I’m going to stay there or not, but I’m curious about the gay scene on the east coast. I figure I have some time to explore the city and figure out if it’s worth staying, and if I decide it isn’t, I can make it to the Jersey coast before summer starts._

_I’m on my own again and it feels strange, but I feel different. More adjusted. I’m a nomad now, I think. That’s what they call them in school. I’m not opposed to finding somewhere to stay for a while, I just haven’t seen a reason to stick around, yet._

_But I don’t feel so sad and lost, anymore. I think I’m hard to disorient, now, because I live in constant movement. Kind of always teetering on the edge of spinning out of control, but never quite getting there._

_I’ve saved a good amount of money from my place in La Famille, so I probably won’t have to pull tricks for a couple weeks._

* * *

_April 10th, ‘16_

_This all feels so freeing. I think that’s what’s changed. I’ve stopped feeling trapped because I can’t go back home, and started feeling free. To go anywhere. I’m nameless, aren’t I? I mean, I’ve told everyone that I’ve met since I was kicked out of boot camp that my name is Curtis, and they just believe me. They just take it at face value. I could probably throw on a fake accent and claim I’m from Ireland and they’d believe me if I sold it enough. People just trust other people, and that’s the dumbest thing I have ever seen. I have lied to every person I’ve met, and they trust me. Fuck, they trust me! The world’s just there to squeeze the life out of. I could probably tell a whole city I could fly and they’d believe me if I disappear quick enough, because they’re all just stuck in one place, and what I do is sort of like flying. Moving, moving, moving, you move for long enough, that’s got to be considered flying. Like a robin migrating. The world is full of cardinals staying in the same goddamn place and I’m a robin._

* * *

It’s the beginning of August when they see Gabe (eternally Salt and Pepper) for the last time. They’re on their break, stretched on the bench across from the restaurant, and Mickey’s right in the middle of teasing Ian about his required hairnet for the millionth time when the guy strides right up to them like he owns the damn universe.

Mickey hasn’t seen him since the Fourth of July, and he would have died happy if he never had to see the silver fox from Hell again.

But here he is now, head high and eyes glinting, and Mickey’s wanted to deck an army’s worth of people in his lifetime, but never more so than this man, right now.

“Well, Curtis,” Gabe sighs in a grandiose fashion. “I’m leaving town. Back to Boston.”

Ian fidgets, and his eyebrows draw together. Mickey bristles at the sound of the man’s voice, staring him down unrelentingly.

Gabe seems unfazed by the silence, eyes locked wistfully on Ian. “And will you be here when I return next summer, Curtis?”

Ian purses his lips and shrugs. “Anyway the wind blows, right?”

Gabe laughs heartily, like it’s some sort of stellar inside joke, and he beams at Ian when he finally quiets down.

_Obnoxious asshole._

“And you haven’t reconsidered my offer at all?” he asks with a disgustingly fond smile.

“What offer?” Mickey asks, turning to Ian in question.

Ian only shakes his head. “No, answer’s the same.”

“Well, Curtis, I guess I’m just going to have to see you in my dreams,” Gabe sings.

“Hey, fuckin’ watch yourself,” Mickey warns, shifting to stand before Ian grabs him by the wrist and tugs him back down onto the bench.

Ian smiles diplomatically, thumb running soothingly over Mickey’s skin. “Have a safe trip,” he says simply, strained.

“Well. Curtis.” The man makes a point to look at Mickey with disdain. “Cujo. This seems to be goodbye.” Gabe waves one last time with a winsome grin, and then turns on his heel towards the one-digits, quickly melting into the crowd.

Ian collapses with an exhale of relief. “Thank _God_ he’s finally gone.”

Mickey watches him, and feels that electricity again, that something’s missing to the situation, that lightning is about to strike if he doesn’t move to safer shelter.

“What the fuck was that about?” Mickey asks, glancing back in the direction of the man. “That asshole been givin’ you trouble?”

“It’s all part of the trade, Mick,” Ian dismisses. “Repressed, married gays become obsessed with you because you make them feel real for money. He wanted to take me back to Boston to be his fuckin’ consort or something. He’s big in Massachusetts government.”

“And you said no,” Mickey states uncertainly.

Ian smacks him lightly on the arm with a laugh. “Of course I said no. Do you see me on the next plane to Boston?”

Mickey smiles tightly, but something about the whole thing makes him feel uneasy. “Why the hell would he ask you to move to fuckin’ Boston? All you did was dance for the guy.”

Ian’s mouth opens and closes a few times, and he seems at a loss for a few seconds before he shakes himself minutely and shrugs. “I don’t know, man. Like I said, he was obsessed with me. Probably just wanted to make the illusion a reality, or something.”

Mickey raises a skeptical eyebrow and wills the dreadful feeling in his stomach to dissipate.

Ian smiles consolingly and reaches to cup Mickey’s face gently, turning to look into his eyes. “Come on, Mick, he’s gone now. Let’s forget him.”

Mickey stares for a few more seconds, searching Ian’s face, and he finally nods, letting Ian lean in to kiss him.

Something about the fervency of the kiss doesn’t dissolve the feeling, but Mickey’s an addict by now, and he sinks into his habit all the same.

* * *

_May 10th, ‘16_

_I’ve been in Philly for a few weeks, but I’m not making much of a dent. It’s all very overwhelming. I don’t know what to do, or where to go. I’ve been in South Philly for most of the time, hopping in and out of a shelter, because I think I just understand how to survive here, but I’m starting to run low on money and I’ve been thinking about the ocean a lot, lately. It’s just right there. Why am I staying in this unfamiliar, borderline terrifying city when the ocean’s right there, a few hours away? I’ve been asking around about Jersey beach towns, and a lot of the locals have been mentioning a place down near Atlantic City, Azurra. They say it’s popular with tourists, which means it’s probably popular with rich, closeted homosexuals. The perfect clientele. I think the day after tomorrow I’m going to use the last of my money to take the train to Atlantic City, and then hitchhike over to Azurra to see what all the fucking fuss is about._

_At least I’ll get to see the ocean, right? Maybe I can look for a dancing job, at a club. I’ll even dance for drunk old straight women if it gets me good tips, if I’m honest. Actually, that might be more fun._

* * *

_May 13th, ‘16_

_I don’t write a lot, anymore, I know. I don’t really have a good excuse. It feels tedious, and there’s a certain routine to being homeless in the way that I currently am that isn’t worth recording every day. I think a lot of things, but they’re usually gone before I can write them down. Flying too fast, but nothing brings me real inspiration. I want something that makes me think, again. Something that fascinates me. I’m tired of thinking about home, and my life, and myself, and how pointless humanity is, considering I see the same personalities cycled through different people over and over and over. I’ve said it all. I want something I don’t understand, something that frustrates me until I reach an epiphany. I can’t have seen it all. I can’t have met everyone there is to meet. I’m seventeen, this can’t be all it is. Surprise me, world. Throw me a goddamn curveball for once._

* * *

_May 18th, ‘16_

_I have finally laid eyes on the goddamn ocean, and it’s fascinating. Definitely not how I thought it would look. It’s much darker than I expected, stormier, even on the bluest day. I'd even go so far as to say that it's green, most of the time. I could watch it for hours, though. The way it moves alone, large but one. I imagine getting lost out there, in the middle of it all, and even then, when all you would be able to see for miles is water, it would just be one unified body. All that, a single soul._

_This city really reminds me of my old neighborhood. It’s crazy, actually. Some of the streets I discover I swear I’ve walked down them a million times. The gay scene here is surprisingly lively, stretching down one long street that shoots off near the end of the boardwalk. And the police presence sucks, which is practically an answer to goddamn prayer for me. I’ve only been here for about four days, but I already have a regular, and he’s actually pretty damn attractive, leaps and bounds away from the old guys I’m used to being with. Still much older than me, but much less wrinkled than usual. I found an old apartment building to squat in, with a bunch of high-off-their-shit addicts who don’t give a fuck who I am or where I sleep. Is it ideal? No. Will I take it? Absolutely. Until I can figure my shit out around here, I’ll be glad to sleep somewhere where I don’t have to pay rent. That way, I can buy what I need. Stay fed. Buy sunblock._

* * *

It’s two days later when Ian convinces Mickey to come watch the sun rise over the ocean. The method to this achievement is a blur; it feels as if one second, he’s swatting Ian away, still half-asleep, and the next he’s freezing his ass off sitting on a rock face, a thermos of coffee his only consolation.

“Why the fuck did you force me out here, Red?” he asks for the hundredth time, receiving his hundredth shush of the day. He takes a resentful swig of coffee and glares at the soft glow of the horizon.

“Can’t you just tell--”

“Shh.”

“I just want to know--”

“ _Shh._ ”

“Just _tell_ me what the fuck--”

Ian leans over, lightning quick, to capture his lips in a quieting kiss. Mickey tallies it as another ‘ _Shh._ ’

Ian smiles sweetly when he pulls back, cupping Mickey’s face in his hands gently.

“Shut the fuck up for a second,” he whispers, releasing Mickey with a laugh when he receives a light shove to the chest.

Mickey keeps his mouth shut, then, and watches.

It’s slow. There’s hardly anything, for a while. Just the idea of something to come, a golden prediction that leaves him wondering if the sun will ever show itself. Then, it comes, tiny and pink and underripe. The two of them are quiet, and Mickey can’t say he knows shit about music, but he could swear the sunrise is like a slowly swelling symphony.   
Mickey finds himself looking for that picturesque moment, but it just keeps building. The sun packs on more weight as the sky wakes up and it seems to come in movements, only moving forward, like a plot line, exposition to rising action to climax to climax to climax, a sight you think you’ve learned until you look away for a second and then turn back and find a whole new story. He glances away for the last time, during a loud fusion of golden orange and hopeful blue, at the boy beside him, a boy that must be made of sunlight. He’s never glowed quite this much, before. It feels cliche to even think, but here he is, sitting right there, the source of the sunrise, his skin the pinks and yellows and his hair the fire of the sun and his eyes the ripple of the water.

Mickey opens his mouth, to say something, speak his mind, but the sunrise is too loud and honest. He sips his coffee, realizes he’s cracked some sort of code. Sunrise over the ocean looks the same everywhere, Ian had said. It doesn’t, Mickey knows, but he’ll never tell. Ian wasn’t meant to find religion in this sky. He’s not meant to be aware that the best view is reflected off his own skin.

Mickey shakes away from himself, and looks back to the horizon to find the falling action. The subdued, resolute color of day.

“It’s my birthday,” Ian announces, then. “I’m eighteen.”

Mickey takes another drink of coffee, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “That why you dragged me out here?”

“Never watched a sunrise with someone else,” Ian states. “Feels kinda different.”

Mickey taps his fingers against the cold rock below them. “Didn’t get you a present,” he admits quietly, after a second. “Didn’t know it was your birthday.”

“I’m goin’ home, Mick.”

Mickey blinks, hard, and turns to look at Ian, dazed. “Huh?”

“To Chicago,” Ian explains, barely above a whisper. “I wanna go home.”

“Yeah,” Mickey answers, equally as quiet. “I know you do.” He swallows away the new panic in his throat, the metallic warning that the statement means more.

“No,” Ian says softly, and Mickey understands. He doesn’t need to hear it. It doesn’t need to be said. Ian says it, anyway. “I mean now.”

And there it is. Finally, there it is. The tension below the surface, the crackling static, there it is, roaring to life, spilling over. There it is.

Mickey’s fingers tighten around the thermos, and if he didn’t know better, he’d be afraid it might break.

_Fuck. Not now._

He feels stupid just for thinking it. Why not now? Why not? Isn’t now as good a time as any to shatter his fucking heart?

“You’re not coming with me, are you?”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Maybe that’s why Mickey doesn’t need to give an answer before Ian speaks again.

“You never were gonna come with me,” he states, resigned.

And maybe he wants to deny it. Maybe he wants to throw down the gauntlet, flip off his own common sense, and follow Ian to the end of the goddamn Earth.

But he can't, can he? Because if he does that, that's it. That's a real commitment. That's chasing the high, that's self-destruction. That's addiction.

“A lot to leave behind,” Mickey admits tightly.

“Yeah.”

They’re quiet, for a minute or two.  Long enough for a few early risers to pass by. A rude reminder that the world is larger than the sunrise, larger than their problems. When the last of the footsteps fade, Mickey reaches over and turns Ian’s chin gently to meet his lips, a quiet, dazed consolation. Their silence extends when they pull away, just far enough for their lips to separate, their foreheads resting together, a reluctance to admit finality.

“I need to tell you something before I go,” Ian rasps, and if Mickey didn’t know any better, he’d say the other boy is on the verge of tears. “You’re going to be angry.”

Mickey’s throat tightens, and he wills himself to disappear as he leans back away from Ian. “Then don’t fuckin’ say it,” he answers in a half-plea, a stark contrast to his meticulously stony face. "Just leave it be."

“I have to.”

Mickey can’t lift his eyes to meet Ian’s, and he nearly flinches when the boy speaks again.

“That Gabe guy was a client,” he drags out, barely audible.

Mickey’s eyebrows draw together, and his eyes flick up to Ian's face, for a second. “Yeah, I know. I saw him pay you for dances like, fifteen times.”

“No, Mick,” Ian refutes quietly. “Before I started at the club.”

Mickey blinks out at the water, brain refusing to comprehend what the fuck he could possibly mean. And then it hits him. It hits him, the panic, that horrible, pulsing, nauseous feeling, and he jolts to look at Ian, nearly dropping the thermos in his hands. “He was a fuckin’ John?” Ian’s lips draw into a tight line, and Mickey scoffs, looking back out to the ocean to search for some indication that this is a fucking joke.

“Mickey…” Ian says, after a moment of terse silence.

“No, let me see if I got this right,” Mickey interrupts, holding up a trembling hand. “You were fucking that dude, _for money_ , while livin’ in _my_ house, and sleepin’ in _my_ bed?”

Ian stares at him, defeat and panic in his eyes, and it almost makes the anger bubbling in Mickey’s mind stutter. “Yes,” Ian answers, pained.

Mickey opens his mouth to say something else, to explain out the exact situation, or to scream in frustration, or maybe to just fucking cry.

_You lied to me. I saved your goddamn life and you lied to me._

“I cut it off,” Ian says quickly, when Mickey doesn’t fill the agonizing silence. “After the Fourth of July, I cut it off.”

Mickey reels back, nearly falls off the fucking rock to the wet sand below. 

He stares at Ian in suspended horror. “The Fourth of _fucking_ July? Are you fucking--”

Ian’s expression of sincerity, then, is the dropoff point, where Mickey stands without another glance and performs an about face to get the fuck out of there.

“Mickey,” Ian calls after him, shuffling to stand and chase after him.

“So, what?” Mickey yells as he whips back around towards Ian, because no, he can’t go silent, he could never go silent. “You thought what? That you could use me until you didn’t need me anymore? Fuckin’ take advantage of me, of the fact that I took pity on your underage ass out there, hustlin’ just to fuckin’ eat? That I brought you into my fuckin’ house, my fuckin’ family…” His voice breaks, and he wipes angrily at the dampness of his eyes, and he knows by now he’s causing some sort of damn scene but he can’t find it in himself to care. Ian takes a step forward, and the step Mickey takes back in turn rips his own heart from his chest. “No. You go find some other warm body to use. I’m done, Ian.”

“Done, huh?” Ian’s jaw tightens, and anger creeps into his voice, too. “After all that, after all this--”

“After all what?” Mickey throws his hands up in exasperation. “Because as far as I can fuckin’ see, none of this was real.”

Ian’s mouth opens as if to say something, but his eyes speak of utter pain. “Mickey, how I feel--”

“It don’t matter now, do it?” Mickey sniffs, glances anywhere but Ian’s face. “Don’t matter how you feel. You fuckin’ lied. Lied, and leeched, and now you’re gonna leave. You ain’t no different than anybody else.”

“Mickey,” Ian chokes out, taking another desperate step forward. “Please don’t end it like this. Not today.”

Mickey laughs humorlessly, swiping at the tip of his nose with his thumb in a nervous tick, the same way he sometimes does when he’s about to throw a punch. He finds the situations differentiated by the way he’s left choking down an accompanying sob.

He shakes his head with finality, breathes out another pained laugh. “You know, Ian, happy birthday, man, but I don’t wanna see your fuckin’ face ever again.”

When he turns this time, he doesn’t look back, Ian doesn’t call out, and the coast is colder than it’s ever been before.

* * *

_May 31st, ‘16_

_I met a boy. His eyes are the exact blue I expected from the ocean._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so there should only be about two or three more chapters left.  
> comments are always very, very appreciated!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh there's a brief mention of non-con sex

“Your fidanzato stopped in,” Leo announces when Mickey pushes through the backdoor of the restaurant, into the office. “Put in his resignation. Active immediately. Eyes all red and shit.”

Mickey grants him nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgement as he pulls off his jacket and hangs it on the hooks beside the door.

“From my estimation, it doesn’t seem that Boy Wonder just didn’t like the job,” Leo continues.

Mickey reaches for the clipboard on the desk, affectionately called _The Lexicon_ , that holds information about all the important things to come that week. His eyes skim down the list, and land on something fairly prominent. “Health inspectors are sweepin’ through this week?”

“So either he was high off his shit, or you made that sweet, harmless kid cry,” Leo deduces, leaning back in his office chair.

“Leo, would you just fuckin’ let it go?” Mickey sighs out. He holds up the clipboard. “We got more important shit to think about. Like not gettin’ your shithole shut down.”

“It just doesn’t make sense, what with you two playing Hollywood’s Hottest and what not.”

“We gotta read up on the newer regulations, because I know you haven’t, scrub everything in the kitchen, make sure everything’s the right temperature, and for God’s sake, tell your employees to wash their fuckin’ hands--”

“ _Milkovich_.”

Mickey shuts his mouth, staring down at the clipboard blankly. He doesn’t spare a glance up at his boss, too afraid of the look of pity he might receive. Because he’s a pathetic sight, isn’t he? Pretending everything’s fine, pouring all that dreadful, nervous energy into denial and work, a paper-thin alibi.

“You can take the day off, if you want,” Leo offers. “I can hold it down here.”

“Why the hell would I do that?” Mickey demands, a burst of anger leaping up from his stomach. Leo raises his eyebrows, and there it is, that fucking look of sympathy and detached sadness. Mickey laughs bitterly, produces an eyeroll that moves his whole body. “Christ. My world doesn’t spin around Ian fuckin’ Gallagher, alright? I’m not gonna put my entire life on hold because he…” His words catch in his throat, betray him again. He blinks, sucks in a breath. “Left,” he finishes, weakly.

Leo stares at him for a few more moments with a calculating expression, before shrugging with a sigh. “Health inspection, huh?”

Mickey nods, relief flooding through him. “Thursday, probably.”

“Get on it, then,” Leo commands, waving him away.

There’s a lot to do, but it isn’t enough. He spends his day absently ordering the employees around, assigning them to jobs to fix the smallest details, but in between those bursts of activity, he’s left grasping for May, for his life before Ian, wondering what the fuck it was that he did with his time. What the _fuck_ did he do with his time?

He was content to coast, before. One workday to the next. His energy evenly distributed. Content in that mediocre rhythm, unaware that life could be more.

And life became more. And that’s the problem. Once life gets a little bit bigger, it can’t shrink back down. Ian might leave, but Mickey will never go back to normal. He’ll be emptier. Incomplete.

* * *

And Ian does leave. He does.

Mickey hates the small part of him that expects to see the boy when he comes home at the end of the day.

Everything he should have said, needs to say, has been brewing in his mind for hours, and he wills Ian to be there on the couch when he walks through the door, if only so he can yell at him in the way he feels necessary.

He isn’t.

“He left,” Mandy says softly behind him, when he stops, hollow, in the doorway of his bedroom. “He packed his shit and said goodbye and left.”  
“Yeah,” Mickey answers, voice broken, as he slumps against the doorframe. “He did.”

He can feel his sister’s eyes on him as he takes a few lost steps into his room and shuts the door, leaning back against the wood and sliding down to the floor in defeat.

* * *

Ian leaves his journal.

It’s pretty picturesque, they way he’s propped it on Mickey’s pillow, all other trace of him erased. Like he existed on another plane, never meant to hop from one world to another, but now that he’s been and gone, he’s left a tear in the fucking continuum.

The beach is technically closed this late, but that’s where Mickey finds himself that night, with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and that fucking journal in the other, arm raised as he works up the nerve to make the grand gesture, to scatter his last piece of Ian to the Atlantic.

It’s an internal argument that rages inside, mostly consisting of the slightly less drunk half of him suggesting the journal might provide some insight, that Ian left it for a reason, and the _extremely_ drunk half of him experimenting with how loud it can scream “ _Shut the fuck up!”_ without Mickey actually vocalizing it.

Maybe regrettably, maybe not, his partially sober side wins out, and he drops his arm, falling to sit on the sand with a strangled groan of frustration.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers angrily, tossing the journal to the side and tightening his grip on the bottle.

He’s not a crier. Never was. He didn’t cry when he took his first punch to the face, didn’t cry when his brothers left, or when his piece of shit father died. He doesn’t cry. His brain’s just never reacted that way.

He’s angry. Distant. Numb. He doesn’t cry.

So he dares anyone to tell him why, fucking _why_ , is he sitting on the empty beach, listening to the ocean roar, wiping furiously at the tears blurring his darkened peripheral?

He blames it on the alcohol, maybe. Maybe just one too many, the atmosphere, the stress, it’s all culminating in that unbearable tightness in his throat. Because there is no possible way, no conceivable scenario, where Mickey could accept crying over a broken heart.

Because come on, a broken heart? This isn’t some after school special. He’s been royally screwed, sure, but that isn’t a new experience for him. Why the fuck would he cry over it?

He takes another drink of whiskey and collapses onto his back, the cold sand unrelenting on his skin.

The stars are bright, the boardwalk shut down for the night, and his drunk mind is uninhibited in the way it associates the sky with Ian.

He squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to reorient himself, but all it brings are flashes of intense memory.

“Fuck! Gimme a fuckin’ break, over here!” he calls to the apathetic ocean as he sits up, throwing his hands to either side in exasperation, the bottle sloshing with the movement. The stars are steady, unbudging, and to be honest, it really fucking pisses him off. “What? What do you fuckin’ want me to say? You want me to admit how fuckin’ dumb I was?” He knows he probably looks insane by now, yelling to the sky, but he never doubted that his future would be some variation of _Crazy Old Drunk Man,_ and something about speaking to a vast emptiness as if it’s listening is freeing. Maybe he understands prayer, now.

“Fine,” he continues, setting his bottle on the sand and gesturing vaguely to the sky. “I was fuckin’ dumb. I fell for it. You fuckin’ tricked me. Happy? You did it. Don’t you have better shit to do than fuck with me? Haven’t you fuckin’ done it enough? Go fuckin’...create world peace or somethin’. Fuck you. I’ll file a...goddamn restraining order on your cosmic ass--”

“Who the fuck are you talkin’ to?”

The sound of Colin’s voice behind him nearly gives him a fucking myocardial infarction.

“Jesus, fuck.” He whips around to see the outline of his brother, his mouth opening and shutting as he struggles to find any way to explain himself. He finally sighs in defeat. “Fuckin’ nobody, I guess,” he mutters, turning back to the ocean. “Nobody.”

Colin doesn’t say anything, just takes a few steps forward and quietly takes a seat next to Mickey.

“Been lookin’ for you, Mick,” he finally says. “You fuckin’ vanished, after you got home.”

Mickey shrugs, drawing his knees up his chest and wrapping his arms around them, swallowing down a shiver.

“Kid fucked you up pretty bad, huh?” Colin sighs, reaching for the bottle and taking a short swig.

“Somethin’ like that,” Mickey mumbles, tugging lightly at a loose string on his jeans. “You don’t have to fuckin’ say you were right, by the way. I know.”

“I know.” There’s a stretch of quiet, and Mickey props his chin on the top of his knee. “I was right, though.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, makes a sound of disgust in the back of his throat. “Thanks for not sayin’ it. Asshole.”

Colin laughs, and the corners of Mickey’s mouth are tempted to twitch up, too, but they fall just short. Colin quiets down quickly, and they’re left with the ocean and their own breath.

“Y’alright, though, kid?” Colin asks softly, and it’s the most genuine thing Mickey’s heard from his brother in a decade. For a second, he considers letting everything go, and admitting that no, he’s not, he’s fucking not, that he doesn’t know if he can hold the tears back if he feels like this every night from now on, when things slow down.

“Yeah,” he settles on. “Fuck ‘em, right?” It sounds brittle even to his own ears, accompanied by a shaky exhale. “Fuck him.”

And maybe Mickey’s never really appreciated his brother, before. The way he’s always pushed, always protected. Kept them together. A unit. But now, when Colin allows Mickey to pretend, he remembers how much he loves his siblings. They just _let it be_ , when it matters.

“He cared, Mick,” Colin finally states, small but solid. “He was fucked, but he cared.”

Mickey doesn’t answer, just stares out into the amphitheater void of the ocean and tries to force himself to believe it.

And if Colin reaches out, in a rare moment, and wraps an arm around his little brother’s shoulders, Mickey can let it slide.

And if Mickey finally can’t ignore the stinging in his eyes, and allows a few frigid tears to make their way down his cheeks, Colin can just let it slide, too.

* * *

The journal sits in his nightstand for a whole week before he spares it another glance.

Maybe he’s the smallest bit afraid of it. Afraid that shit might make sense. Or shit might hurt more. And everything’s just too fresh, Ian’s absence still too real, _fuck_ is it real, to go back and reiterate, rethink, relive.

Every time his mind wanders to it, he tries his best to snap it away. That’s harder at night, when it’s right there, but the very idea of opening it makes him feel nauseous.

He’s still angry. Furious. Heartbroken. That doesn’t change in a week. He’s still all those things, and Ian’s still gone.

And maybe a part of him is still holding out for Ian to come back. Dwindling by the minute, but still there. Maybe part of him thinks that, if he reads the journal, it’ll all be boiled down to fiction, and Ian will really, really, be written out of the story.

But that’s what he wanted, isn’t it? That’s what he asked for. _He_ let it end badly. Wouldn’t hear Ian out. And maybe part of him knows it’s unfair, but he blames himself for that.

Fuck, he blames himself for a lot.

It’s 3 am, day seven, the last day in August, when he finally becomes curious as to exactly how far back the journal goes. He spends about forty seconds sitting on his bed, staring at the book in his lap dumbly, before finally flipping it open.

It’s mundane, at first. He seems to have started it in the summer of last year, maybe as a new hobby, maybe a continuation of an old habit. Just a way to pass the time. The musings of a high school kid. School this, sports that. Mickey finds himself reading every word.

The confirmation that Ian, at one point, had a semi-normal life, is nearly comforting.

And he’s still angry. He is. But he reads, takes a look into Ian’s mind, until the clock reads 5 am and the journal reads November. And with every entry, Mickey takes extra, reluctant care to associate the events with Ian, to give context to everything, to not allow it to become far away and pointless. Maybe Ian doesn’t deserve that level of concentration. But the journal is personal, oftentimes dark, and Ian writes many things that resonate in his bones, that he finds himself repeating multiple times just to maybe absorb them correctly.

He’s still angry, but Ian left the journal for a reason, and Mickey’s an addict all the same.

He falls asleep halfway through the entry about some dumb school dance, eyes burning, his heart thudding in a soft reminder that it’s still corporeal. Still intact.

* * *

The first week in September is always the busiest in Azurra. One last hurrah before summer fades and parents can dispose of their children five days a week. It’s convenient, fills his days with hectic customer service, depletes him until he’s able to collapse into bed as soon as he clocks out. He doesn’t touch the journal again for the duration of the week, with the internal excuse that he’s too tired, too busy.

Really, he thinks he wants to savor it. He wants to heal a bit more before he learns everything.

So he goes to work, comes home, gradually eases back into life as a family of four. His siblings don’t treat him like he’ll break, but they don’t mention Ian. It’s as if he never existed at all.

Iggy finds a construction job, starts picking up what was Ian’s share without a word. Colin buys the microwave he had his eyes on, without a single dig. Even Mandy’s in on the act, which Mickey just doesn’t get. She loved having Ian around. They were like two sides of the same bitchy coin.

It comes to a point where Mickey’s convinced that, if he were to mention Ian again, his siblings would look at him as if he were insane and inform him that this ‘Ian’ character is just a figment of his imagination.

But there are certainly little things that they’ve had to adjust to, again, that reassure Mickey that Ian was real, Ian was here, and Ian is gone.

Little things. Like, Ian always woke up first, so he made the coffee and, more often than not, breakfast. Now, it’s a tossup. _Whoever_ wakes up first. And honestly, cereal tastes subpar in comparison to fresh pancakes.

And every Friday night, Mandy and Ian would watch whatever movie they could find playing (be it _The Notebook_ or _Godzilla Vs. Mechagodzilla II_ ) and, more often than not, Mickey would join them and complain about everything until Mandy resorted to physical force to shut him up. But it was all worth it to make Ian laugh.

Now, on most nights, Mandy goes out with her work friends and Mickey falls asleep on the couch watching reruns of Food Network shows.

He falls asleep on the couch a lot, now. He maintains that it’s just a coincidence, but he knows that his bed feels too large for comfort, now, and if he avoids sleeping in it, maybe he can just pretend, for a second. Pretend what, he isn’t sure. Just in general. Pretend.

It’s on one of these Friday nights, when he’s making his way to the living room to begin his newfound routine of watching _Chopped_ until he passes out, that he overhears his siblings talking in low, concerned voices in the kitchen.

Not low enough, considering he can easily hear everything they say from the hallway.

“Is he okay?” Mandy wonders. “It’s been two weeks and he hasn’t mentioned Ian once.”

“He’s like a fuckin’ zombie, man,” Iggy comments. “He just wakes up, goes to work, and then goes back to sleep.”

“He was pretty fucked up that first night, but since then...nothin’,” Colin reports. “No emotion, about anything. It’s gettin’ kinda scary. What the hell happened between them?”

“I don’t know,” Mandy says. “I told you guys, Ian just said he fucked up real bad and he was going back to Chicago. Nothing else. And he left me his address and told me to write in a month.”

Mickey’s heart pounds in his chest. He gave Mandy his _address_?

“Do you think we’re doing the right thing?” Mandy continues.

“What, pretendin’ the kid never fuckin’ existed?” Iggy asks.

“Yeah.”

“You know Mick,” Colin sighs. “He doesn’t want to talk about shit. If we tried to mention that kid, he’d probably act like he’s never heard that name in his life. It’s for the best if we just act like shit is normal, right? So eventually, it actually will be.”

“Should we help him find a new guy, or something?” Mandy asks. “I could take him down to Queen Street tonight.”

_Please fucking don’t._

“Whatever eases your conscience, sis,” Iggy speaks. “But I dunno if goin’ to the same place he met his ex is the best idea.”

_Yes. Listen to Iggy._

“No, it’ll be fun! I’ll bring my friends from work.”

_For the love of Christ, no._

“Mandy, you just wanna go to a gay club without lookin’ like a dumb broad,” Colin points out dryly. Mickey has to bite back a laugh. “Mickey is not gonna want to go clubbin’ with you. His idea of a good Friday night is being left alone to do...whatever it is he does.”

Mandy, apparently, has turned a deaf ear. “I’m gonna do it. It’ll be good for him to get out of the house. I just have to text everyone.”

_Can’t force me to go clubbing if I jump off a roof first._

“Mickey!” she yells across the house, causing him to flinch. “Get cleaned up, we’re going out!”

He waits a few seconds before he finally emerges from the hallway, thoughts of said suicide pushed reluctantly to the side. “Fuck you mean we’re goin’ out?”

“My friends and I wanna check out the clubs on Queen Street. We need a gay.” Mandy smiles sweetly. “Will you come with me, my dear, homosexual brother?”

“Do I look like some fag for rent to you?” he asks, striding into the kitchen and opening a cabinet for a glass to fill with water.

Mandy rolls her eyes, and blows a strand of hair out of her face as Mickey runs the tap. “I’ll buy your weed for a month.”

Mickey chews his bottom lip in thought. “Three months,” he counters, taking a sip of his water.

“Two,” Mandy says sternly, crossing her arms.

Mickey mulls it over, shrugging and smirking into his glass when he comes to a decision. “Looks like you’ve just rented yourself a fag,” he announces, with a muted smile, and Mandy practically squeals with delight as she hops out of her chair to throw her arms around his neck. “I won’t dance with any of you, though,” Mickey calls above her celebration, clapping a reluctant hand on her back. “And the second anybody talks to me like I’m a fuckin’ drag queen, I’m out.”

“Deal,” Mandy smiles.

* * *

Mickey doesn’t make much of an effort, just takes a quick shower and pulls on whatever clothes he sees first (a very faded Radiohead shirt that he thinks might have been Jaime’s at one point, and jeans), a fact Mandy is, apparently, pissed about.

“Can’t you _try_ a little more?” she inquires tiredly.

“Mandy, I am not changing because you don’t think I look gay enough.”

“It’s not that you don’t look _gay_ enough,” she insists. “You look like you just rolled out of bed.”

“I don’t know if you noticed, Mandy, but we live in New Jersey. Not really known for its glamour.”

“Mickey, you couldn’t look like you give less fucks if you tried,” Mandy groans.

“Is that a challenge?” he asks, straightening, grinning at the disgusted look she gives him.

Their argument is interrupted by loud knocking and the distant sound of female voices.

“I just don’t get why you have to be such a gross fucking _guy_ ,” she complains as she heads towards the door.

“Well, considering I _am_ a guy, I think it makes a lot of fuckin’ sense,” Mickey argues. He shakes his head and sighs. “Fuck, straight people are dumb.”

Mandy rolls her eyes and tugs the door open, her face instantly shifting to sunny.

“Hey, Mandy!” the gaggle of girls greets, flooding into the living room. There’s four of them: a skinny blonde with nice clothes, a skinny brunette with _nicer_ clothes, an older, pretty woman with dark skin, and a mousy one with a shirt loudly proclaiming _Cats Are Better Than People._

“Is this your brother?” the skinny blonde asks when they all get done hugging each other.

“Yeah, this is Mickey,” Mandy announces. “Mickey, this is Eileen, Abby, Di, and Jen.”

“Hey,” he acknowledges, with a short nod.

“Hi, Mickey!” the skinny brunette, Abby, greets, holding her hand out. Mickey takes it, shaking reluctantly. “I’m a big fan.”

Mickey glances around the room in confusion. “Of...what?”

“The gays! You know, your culture.” Abby elaborates with a huge grin.

Mickey squints at her, and nods slowly. “Right.”

_I knew this was a bad fucking idea._

“I watched _Queer As Folk_ last year, Mickey! It changed my life!” the blonde, Eileen, gushes.

Mickey swipes at his bottom lip with his thumb awkwardly. “Yeah, I, uh, have no fuckin’ clue what that is, but good for you, I guess.”

Eileen’s smile seems to shrink at that, and she glances at the pretty one with dark skin, Di, nervously, who shrugs with wide eyes.

“Well, I guess you just need to change, and then we can go,” the mousy one, Jen, cuts in, in a botched attempt to soothe the uncomfortable tension.

Mickey raises his eyebrows and fights the laugh bubbling in his throat. “Change?” he asks with a false confusion, and the look she gives him is borderline hilarious. “I’m ready to go.”

“Ignore him,” Mandy dismisses with a wave of her hand. “He just got dumped,” she stage whispers to her friends, and from their expressions, you’d think he was a kicked puppy.

“Oh no,” they all coo in unison.

“Jesus Christ, fuck this,” he mutters, turning to go back to his room, lock the door, and wait until the Malibu Barbie squad gives up and leaves.

“Two and a half months,” Mandy hisses before he can take another step.

He considers it. Two and a half months worth of weed is a lifesaver when you’re freshly single and real fucking sad about it, he reasons. Maybe enough to make a night of having stereotypes slung at him worth it.

“Fine,” he sighs. “And for the fuckin’ record, I dumped him,” he corrects as he’s ushered through the door, though it doesn’t make the subject any less painful.

“Well, I’m glad you’re coming with us,” Eileen says as they make their way down the sidewalk. “When my ex broke up with me, there was nothing that helped more than getting white-girl wasted.”

Mickey scoffs. “Trust me, Sunshine, Milkoviches _do not_ get white-girl wasted.”

* * *

Two hours and five glasses of whiskey and coke later, and Mickey is, essentially, white-girl wasted.

“He fuckin’ just _left_ ,” he slurs out to Di, who nods consolingly, one hand on his forearm in comfort. They’re seated at the bar of the Fairy Tail, the rest of their group diffused onto the dance floor. “Like, what the fuck? I was mad but I didn’t want him to fuckin’ _leave._ ”

“I know, baby,” Di encourages, rubbing his arm gently.

“To Chicago! Fuckin’ Chicago. Who the fuck...who the fuck lives in Chicago, anyway? Not me. I don’t live in Chicago, and he still went...to Chicago. Without me.”

“Didn’t you tell him to?” she inquires.

Mickey stares at her like she’s insane. “Well _yeah_ but I didn’t _mean_ it. I mean maybe I meant it a _little_ , but not all the way. I just meant for him to know I was...pissed. Not to go--not to go to fuckin’ _Chicago_.”

“But he didn’t _know_ that, sweetie,” she points out. “Guys, they need to hear it exactly how you mean it, you know? I’ve been with my man for seven years, and I’ve learned that if I want something, I have to _tell_ him, or he’s like a lump on a log. Useless.”

“Boys are fuckin’ dumb,” he announces loudly, sitting up straighter. “Why can’t I like girls? They’re nicer.”

“Sometimes I ask myself the same thing, baby,” Di tuts out. “But when you’re born to suck dick, you’re born to suck dick.”

“Amen,” Mickey sighs, raising his glass. “Shit, God didn’t even give me a gag reflex.”

“You, too?” Di laughs out, and Mickey raises his arms in happy surprise, letting out a raucous laugh of his own.

“Fuck! You’re my new best friend.” He flags down the bartender as he passes by. “This is my best friend,” he calls out, “give her another drink, on me. And me another drink. On me, too.” The bartender nods, with a slight eye roll, and sets about making their drinks.

“So why’d you break up with this guy, again?” Di asks as she sips on the last of her cocktail.

“He was whoring himself out and he didn’t tell me about it,” he explains matter-of-factly, and Di tilts her head, eyes widening at the scandal of it. “Which maybe I would’ve gotten over it if he’d _told_ me, but even then the guy was the _biggest_ asshole, and he _lied_ about it all, you know? We had this open relationship bullshit goin’ for a while and one of the _only_ rules was to not lie about it, but that’s what he did.” The bartender slides them their drinks, and Mickey takes a sip. “And, did I tell you how we met?”

Di shakes her head, leaning an elbow on the bar.

“He’s this pasty, scrawny fuckin’ seventeen year old kid sellin’ his ass around here, and I go up to him, for some fuckin’ reason, and I tell him if he doesn’t fuck this old dude that’s payin’ him, I’ll give him somewhere to sleep for a week. I mean, our relationship _started_ with me askin’ him kindly _not_ to accept money for sex, and what does he do for the majority of it? Accept money...for sex.”

Di hums in disapproval.

“And the worst part, Di, you wanna hear the worst part?”

“What’s the worst part, baby?”

Mickey sucks in a breath, his grip tightening around his glass. “I still fuckin’ want him back.”

Di raises her eyebrows. “After all that?”

“Yes! Isn’t that fuckin’ horrible? There’s somethin’ wrong with me,” he berates.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with being in love, honey,” Di tells him, and he groans.

“ _Love_ . I hate that fuckin’ word. It doesn’t even _mean_ anything. I mean, like, he just made me feel good. Except when he made me feel fuckin’ horrible. It was either one or the other, Di.” He takes another sip of his drink.

“Sounds like love, to me,” Di observes. “Can’t live with it. Can’t live without it.”

He stares down into his glass, finally quiet for a moment.

“Excuse me,” a voice sounds behind him, and he turns to see one of the dancers squinting at him in the low light.

“Yeah?” he asks, ice clinking against his glass as he shifts to look at the guy better. He’s Asian or something, short, with nice hair and a nicer body.

“Aren’t you Curtis’s boyfriend?” he asks. "I saw you with him the night his boyfriend laid some guy out."

Mickey lets out a long sigh of exasperation. “Ex,” he corrects, after he’s made the fact that he does _not_ want to be talking about ‘Curtis’ known. “But yeah, I’m him.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear you broke up,” the guy apologizes nervously. “He talked about you a lot. We all really expected you to stay together.”

Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Yeah, man, nothin’ you’re saying is helping.”

“Uh, sorry,” he winces. “Anyway, I’m Adam, and Curtis and I were kind of friends, and everyone around here is just wondering if he’s alright?”

Mickey shrugs. “Should be on his way back to Chicago, right now, if he ain’t already there,” he explains. “Fuck if I know, beyond that.”

Adam nods, relief flooding his eyes. “You’re sure?”

Mickey stares at him in puzzlement. “Pretty sure.” The stripper seems to release one big breath. “Why wouldn’t he be alright?” Mickey asks, the odd situation slightly sobering.

“Well…” Adam glances around the club, and takes a step closer to Mickey. “I can take my break now, if we can go somewhere quieter. I don’t really want to yell everything, you know?”

Heart pounding, Mickey nods, that racing, nauseous feeling from two weeks ago returning to his gut. He smiles at Di, who nods encouragingly, and follows Adam through the club and out the backdoor. It shuts behind them, dulling the music and leaving them to the night air.

“That’s better,” Adam says, releasing another deep breath. “Sometimes that place makes me feel like I’m suffocating.”

Mickey nods absently in agreement, crossing his arms against the slight September chill.

“Anyways,” Adam continues, shuffling one foot restlessly. “You know about Gabe?”

Mickey clenches his fists, his blood dangerously close to boiling at the mention of that name. “Yeah, I know about him.”

Adam chews on his lip. “How much do you know?”

Mickey shrugs, and looks at the ground. “That, uh, that Curtis was fuckin’ him for money behind my back.”

“That’s it?”

Mickey stares at him in borderline fear. “How the fuck could there be more?”

“Well,” Adam begins, his mouth moving silently, searching for whatever words he’s trying to say. “There’s no easy way to say this,” he laughs anxiously.

“Just fuckin’ say it, please, so I can go back to drinking myself to death.”

Adam looks at him, mouth open, for a few moments, before he exhales sharply and crosses his arms. “Alright. Gabe, uh, he forced Curtis to...keep seeing him.”

Mickey freezes, the statement making no sense to his swimming head. “Huh?”

“Yeah. Right around when you guys started out, like beginning of June, right? Curtis tried to tell Gabe that he wasn’t in the escort game anymore, because he was with you, but Gabe threatened him, and stuff.”

Mickey’s heart beats in his throat, and a cocktail of part-panic, part-rage, part-horror floods through his body. “Threatened him how?” Mickey inquires, voice low.

“Well, first, it was with his job, right? He told Curtis that he’d get him fired. But then, Curtis told him, you know, that he didn’t give a shit if he was fired, because he hated the job anyway, and then Gabe held him up.”

“Held him up?” Mickey repeats. “As in, put a _gun_ to his head _held him up_?”

Adam nods solemnly.

Mickey paces a few steps away from the dancer, head spinning, and then he turns back. “And you’re sure. Absolutely sure.”

“It...happened in the back room. It got pretty loud, y’know? The office is right next to it, I was taking my break. And then later I asked Curtis about it, and he told me what happened.”

“And he never fuckin’ told me?” Mickey breathes in disbelief.

“I told him he needed to, but he wouldn’t, and he made me swear not to,” Adam defends. “And I would have told you anyway, but you never came to the club again when I was working, and I didn’t know where to find you or Curtis.”

Mickey scrubs a hand over his face, trying to ground himself, to shake himself out of this daze. “Why the fuck wouldn’t he want me to know?” he wonders.

“I think he blamed himself, man. For getting himself into the situation. He was a sweet kid, but he was stubborn as hell. Didn’t really want anyone to help him with anything,” Adam explains.

And yeah, that sounds like Ian.

“So how the fuck did he cut it off, if Gabe was givin’ him death threats?” Mickey insists.

Adam holds up his hands to either side, at a loss. “I don’t know. He dropped off the grid after he quit. Maybe he was just too hard to find.”

The inferno in Mickey’s blood has him seeing red. He can’t stand still anymore, every nervous tick he’d ever formed bursting to life. “I’m gonna kill him,” he states, in a horribly calm voice. “I’m gonna go to Boston and rip apart every fuckin’ house until I find him and cut his jugular.”

Adam nods coolly. “I’d cheer you on.”

Mickey laughs, nearly crazed. “If he thinks I was protective when I thought he just had a crush, he’s got another fuckin’ thing coming. He ain’t fuckin’ seen crazy, yet.”

And maybe he’s drunk, maybe he’s fall-down fucking drunk, but he knows he hasn’t felt this angry since his mother’s death, when he watched, watched, watched as the life was choked out of her, but couldn’t do shit about it.

He thanks Adam, says his goodbyes, and staggers his way out of the alley, deadset on home.

It isn’t a long walk, but the constant ringing in his ears makes it feel like an eternity as he mulls over this new revelation.

By the time he reaches his house, he’s settled on his plan for the morning to come. He has to get that address from Mandy, he realizes. He has to make sure Ian really is in Chicago, really is safe. Even if all Ian writes back is ‘Fuck you.’ At least he’ll know he’s safe, with his family.

And then, he’s going to read that fucking journal. All of it. He’ll take a fucking day off to do it, if he has to. He’s done with the mystery of Ian Gallagher. He should have been done with it two weeks ago, should have just slowed down and asked for more explanation. But this is where he is, now. This is where he’s gotten himself. And it’s fucking up to him to fix it.

Like always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all thought i couldn't turn it right back around.  
> i really appreciate every comment. please leave them!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am very tired and this is too short of a chapter for a month to have passed i'm sorry

It’s well past two in the morning when Mandy comes home. Her angry shout of “Mickey!” immediately follows the sound of the door slamming, muted by his bedroom walls.

He’s been drifting in and out of headache-riddled sleep for about three hours now, but as his bedroom door swings open, his fuming sister glaring at him, he’s eerily calm, sitting up and rubbing the blurriness from his eyes.

Her intense stare lasts for a few more seconds before she finally speaks. “Please tell me that you did not spend two hours ranting about your ex boyfriend to someone you just met, just to stick her with the bill and come home to sleep.”

“It’s slightly,” Mickey blinks, holds up a finger. “Slightly more complex than that.”

“You were supposed to meet guys!” Mandy continues. “That was the whole point!”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Mandy, it’s been two weeks. Give me a minute to fuckin’ breathe.”

“You were only together for three months. In proportion, you should only need, like, three and a half _days_ to get over it.”

“Mands,” Mickey tries to cut in, but she isn’t finished.

“And Ian was great, Mick, but he was a fucking runaway prostitute, you shouldn’t be so surprised that he left.”

“Mands.”

“And there are other, more stable fish in the sea. People with jobs around here. Like, real jobs, not shaking their ass for--”

“ _Mandy._ ”

Mandy shuts her mouth, but he can tell she has more to say, so he blurts the first thing that comes to mind.

“I need to kill somebody.”

Mandy stares at him with a look of sheer what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about, before releasing an exhausted exhale. “Yeah, I can’t-- _Iggy! Colin!_ ” she yells, and ignores the muffled shouts of ‘ _Shut up, Mandy!’_

“It’s your fucking turn to babysit him!” she insists. Upon the resulting silence, she informs them, “He wants to commit murder!”

That draws his brothers out of bed, for starkly different reasons.

It’s Colin that emerges first, pushing right past Mandy to grab Mickey by the front of the shirt, nearly lifting him like he’s eight fucking years old again. “Fuck no, you don’t, I did not spend years keepin’ your ass outta juvie just for you to go to big boy prison.”

“So who are we killin’?” Iggy asks from the doorway.

“Nobody!” Colin and Mandy cry in unison, turning to Iggy in exasperation.

Mickey wiggles out of his brother’s grip, leaning to look at Iggy. “How plausible is it to go to another state just to kill someone, and then leave and never get caught?”

Mandy gasps. “Mikhailo!” He winces at his full name, exclusively used by his mother, specifically when she was about to beat his ass. “You are not killing Ian!”

Mickey’s mouth moves soundlessly for a few seconds, completely clueless as to how she came to that extremely incorrect conclusion. “What the fuck? I’m not talkin’ about Ian!”

His siblings stare at him, waiting for an explanation.

He rubs at his eyes again, wishing he didn’t still feel a little bit drunk. “Remember that lawyer asshole you were dating?”

“Blake?” Mandy breaks in. “You want to kill Blake?”

“ _No,_ ” Mickey snaps. “Would you fuckin’ listen for a second? Please?”

His siblings glance at each other, before Mandy nods.

Mickey takes a breath to collect himself before he starts. “Blake’s _brother,_ ” he dictates, throwing a look Mandy’s way, “used to buy Ian’s ass before we met. When Ian tried to cut it off, the piece of shit held a gun to his head. Forced him to keep doin’ it.”

The air is silent with shock for a few moments, the only sound the faint tick of the clock across the hall in Iggy’s room.

Mandy steps forward, then, and sits down on the bed next to Mickey, mouth open in disbelief. “Did you know?” she asks quietly.

“Not ‘til tonight.”

“That’s rape,” Iggy states. “Ain’t it?”

Colin nods, a silent confirmation.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Mickey repeats, for the second time that night.

“Do we tell the police?” Mandy asks.

“ _No_ we don’t tell the cops,” Iggy answers. “What the hell are you thinkin’?”

“Why not?” Mandy insists. “They might be able to help.”

“Because it would be Ian, a gay, runaway, possibly mentally ill _prostitute_ that stole his brother’s identity to get into the army, against a rich, married, respected, _psychotic_ politician,” Mickey explains. “Who do you think ends up in cuffs in that situation?”

“I have a lot of questions about what you just said,” Colin interjects, “but either way, they’re right. No cops.”

“I’m down with killin’ him,” Iggy states. “Rapists don’t deserve to live. They’re even on the outs in prison.”

Colin shakes his head firmly. “ _No._ We’ll figure something else out.”

“ _You_ won’t figure out fuck all,” Mickey corrects him. “Because I’ve got it handled.”

“Yeah, well.” Colin claps an affectionate hand to the side of Mickey’s head, only to be swatted off. “Sleep on it, kid.”

“Yeah, revenge is a dish best served for breakfast,” Iggy contributes.

Mandy shakes her head. “That’s wrong. That’s just...that’s not the expression, Iggy,” she sighs quietly, in a defeated tone.

“Alright, I can’t sleep on it if you don’t get the fuck outta my room,” Mickey states.

His siblings exchange glances, before murmuring their agreements and goodnights, shuffling out of the room and shutting the door.

Mickey falls back onto his mattress with a huff, feeling fully, excruciatingly awake. It’s hell, because every second he’s conscious, he can feel his impulse control slipping further. By dawn, he’ll have dreamt up the most satisfying way to kill Gabe and bought a plane ticket to Boston. His mind wanders to the journal, put on hold in his nightstand, and after a three minute, futile attempt to fall back asleep, he switches on his lamp and pulls it out. 

* * *

 

By the time Ian’s left for the Army, Mickey has to take a minute to blink down at the pages blankly.

Ian left, he thinks, because his boyfriend went psycho on his client.

The similarities of the situations make him nauseous. Granted, in the previous scenario, Ian was _choosing_ to keep seeing that Ned guy.

But a stirring in Mickey’s mind whispers that, if he were to do exactly what he wants to do to Gabe, he’ll never get Ian back. And maybe he won’t, no matter what he does.

He swallows down the thoughts and keeps reading.

* * *

 

Ian’s entries take an odd shift when he leaves Chicago. The voice of a high school boy is overtaken by someone seemingly untouchable. Ethereal. He floats through the world, from boot camp to the streets to the coast, and Mickey knows the story from here, but reading through Ian’s downswing rips a hole in his gut.

He hasn’t even _Googled_ bipolar disorder, he realizes. He’s been living in this little bubble of perfect denial, like he could never be touched by the consequences. But now, reading this, things so real and out of his realm of understanding, his nails dig anxiously into his palms, and he can’t help but worry that he exacerbated everything, somehow, that as soon as Ian told him about the illness he should have researched, or asked more questions, or found a way to contact Ian’s family. _Something._

It’s 3 AM when Mickey types ‘bipolar disorder’ into his phone, and it’s selfish, it brings on a sense of self-loathing, but he projects a silent prayer that the results won’t remind him of Ian at all.

He reads about the manic half with a growing sense of dread.

Little sleep, lots of energy, recklessness.

He thinks back to the day he first kissed Ian, when the boy hotwired a car without a second thought. All the nights that Ian would come home at two in the morning and wake up at six, to go for three hour runs.

It’s all very familiar.

And maybe Mickey never saw the peak, or the trough, but he chews his lip as he equates Ian’s behavior to the climb.

The brightness of his phone burns a patch into his vision as he stares blankly at it.

He hates himself for the relief he feels that Ian never breached the depressive side of the illness in his charge. He wouldn’t know what to think, what to do. He can’t imagine the hopelessness. He can’t imagine, but he has to, because this is Ian. As much as his mind begs for it to be some sort of big lie, this is a part of Ian. Was a part of Ian. Bubbling below the surface. An ambush waiting to pounce.

He tries to think of Ian in the present tense, the future tense, but it’s all so distant, so lacking in acoustics, like Ian was a mirage that shimmered out of view. Like the sun passed behind a cloud and never emerged again. Like his heart has stuttered out of function, and he still stands, walking and talking without a pulse.

He nearly barks out a laugh, despite the tone of the night. He briefly wonders when his thoughts grew to be so flowery. Fucking Gallagher. 

* * *

 

He sets aside the journal when Ian finally reaches the coast, and begins seeing clients.

He isn’t going to hurt Gabe, he realizes. Not physically. Not badly.

It took him some struggle to reach that conclusion, fighting back every blaring instinct telling him to commit homicide, but, he thinks, a boyfriend going psycho on a side piece is what pushed Ian to run in the first place. And as much as he would love to cause bodily harm to Gabe, Mickey can’t shake the feeling that, if he exacts revenge in that manner, he’s no better than that asshole, Jaq.

And maybe it’s stupid, maybe he’s just begging for more heartbreak, but there’s a small part of him that thinks maybe, just maybe, if he handles this the right way, Ian might take him back.

If they ever cross paths again.

* * *

 

He falls asleep dehydrated, wakes up at noon with a pounding migraine.

_Fuck me._

He sits up, lays back down immediately upon realization that God has chosen this exact moment to deliver swift punishment for not only Mickey’s personal sins, but the sins of every homosexual to have ever graced this good Earth.

In other words, his head hurts so goddamn bad he can barely see.

He can’t really remember his last thoughts before he passed out 6 hours ago, but he has no trouble remembering everything else, albeit in short bursts between the throbbing in his head.

_Ian. Gabe. Murder. Wait. Not murder. Revenge. Somehow._

“Mornin’, sunshine,” a feminine voice greets at his door. Probably Mandy. He sure as hell isn’t going to turn his head to find out.

“Fuck off.”

“No,” Mandy answers, entering the room and dropping onto the bed. “I’m off work today. You’re off work today.”

“I’m not off work today,” Mickey argues, rubbing a hand across his eyes in attempt to feel any semblance of life within himself. It’s Saturday. He should be at Leo’s right now.

“You are since I called you off,” Mandy elaborates. “Figured if you weren’t hungover, you’d want a day to figure out what it is you’re gonna do to Gabe.”

Mickey grunts in response, his own form of a thank you, and they’re quiet for a beat, until a clear thought pops into his blurry head.

“You still have that lawyer guy’s number?”

Mickey can’t see it, but he can almost feel the way Mandy raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. Been ignoring his apologies for weeks.”

“Get him to invite you to Boston,” Mickey directs. “Say you wanna bring three friends.”

Mandy smirks. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. Black coffee and aspirin. Stat.”

“Evil plotting doesn’t supersede hangover, huh?”

“Apparently not.”

* * *

 

He decides to conserve what little data they have, and seek the asset of free Wi-Fi.

Properly medicated, hangover reduced to a general nausea and a tolerable fogginess behind his eyes, he arrives at the old library (the one he used in fucking high school) with a nearly-gone notepad at exactly 2 pm.

The librarian is Miss Pent, the same old bird from two years ago. Mickey’s pretty sure he placed a bet with a sophomore that she’d be dead by now.

“Mikhailo Milkovich?” Miss Pent croaks out from across the room, breaking her own “No Talking” rule. “I thought you were in prison.”

“Wrong Milkovich,” he answers, trying extremely hard to swallow down the defensiveness he hasn’t felt for a couple months and just push forward to the computers.

Here it was again. Another person that’s known him his entire life, still reducing him to his last name. God forbid she remember that he was the first _Milkovich_ to finish high school. A year early. With a 3.4. God forbid.

“So what _have_ you been doing with yourself?” Miss Pent asks. The library must not get a lot of action.

“You mean since I graduated?” Mickey asks as he settles down in front of a borderline archaic monitor.

“You graduated?”

“Class of ‘14.”

“I had no idea.”

“I was a senior. It’s usually what happens when you finish your senior year.”

He wiggles the mouse, and it brightens immediately to Google.

“I only assumed when you stopped coming in here to harass me--”

“That I was a convicted criminal? Thanks, Pent.”

His fingers pause above the keys as he considers what to type to find what he needs. He settles on ‘ _Boston politician Gabe’._

_Gabe Sarrano, Gabe Miller, Gabe Tellmyre, Gabe DiStefano…_

“And I didn’t come in here to harass you,” Mickey adds, as he clicks on the first option. It’s an old, leathery, white-haired Senator. “I came in here to use the fuckin’ computers. To do fuckin’ homework. Like everyone else.”

“Language!” Miss Pent reprimands. “That is exactly what I mean. You could never just shut your mouth.”

“You talked to me first,” Mickey points out. “I just wanted to come do some research in peace.” That seems to shut her up, for a minute. He tries Gabe Miller. Black guy. Definitely not the right person.

“You never answered my original question, Mikhailo,” Miss Pent breaks in after a minute. “What have you been pursuing?”

“Assistant manager of a restaurant,” he provides absently. He clicks on Gabe Tellmyre.

_Bingo._

There he is, in all his disgusting _DILF_ glory. The sight of him makes Mickey want to punch a hole through the screen.

“Well, that’s very respectable,” Miss Pent observes. “I must apologize, Mikhailo. I assumed rather quickly.”

Mickey might have quirked a small smile, if it weren’t for the pictures of Gabe in front of his eyes. “‘S alright, Pent. You and every other fucker in this city.” There’s pictures of him with the snotty woman from behind the bar and two smiling little kids, a boy and a girl. There’s pictures of him in expensive suits, standing behind podiums, mid-speech. There’s pictures of him slumming it at charity events, posing with a sapling or a homeless person.

And, there’s an address. For an office.

Mickey smiles for the first time since his ignorant, drunk bliss last night. “You know anything about Boston, Pent?”

* * *

 

“How’s it coming, Mandy?” Mickey asks before he’s even fully through the door. Mandy looks up from her spot on the couch, curled over her phone.

She grins impishly. “Told him I wanted to talk about things in person. He’s flying me to Boston. Plus three. Out of Atlantic City, next weekend.”

“Fuckin’ pushover.” Mickey falls down next to her.

Mandy scoffs, returning her attention to her phone. “As if you wouldn’t pay out of pocket to fly Ian back to Jersey on a fucking private jet if he asked you to.”

Mickey ignores her, and tosses the notepad her way, now scribbled full of Gabe’s information.

Mandy pauses whatever she’s still doing on her phone to glance at the notepad. “Jesus, Mick. This is some next level stalker shit.”

“He’s a politician. It took, like, fifteen fuckin’ minutes.”

Her eyebrows draw together. “Is this his address?”

“Nah,” Mickey denies. “Office address.”

“Right.” She skims down the page, before setting it aside. “So, you have a plan?”

Mickey shrugs, chewing his lip. “Might.”

“And we’re all going?”

“Nah. Iggy and me and you.”

“Who’s the fourth?”

“I’ll know tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah.”

* * *

 

He’s so sick of this sleazy fucking club he could vomit. Literally nothing good has ever happened here, and here he is again. Looking for a stripper desperate enough to blackmail a politician for money.

He really, really just wanted a quiet life. He did.

He doesn’t drink, much to the bartender’s irritation. Only scans the crowd until he finds who he’s looking for.

Adam, the dancer from last night, is floating around the floor on lap dance duty. Mickey makes a beeline for him, shoving through the crowd without courtesy.

“Hey,” he calls out when he’s a few feet away, but Adam doesn’t turn. “Hey, Adam!” he tries again, pushing his way closer, and the dancer whips around.

“Oh. Hey!” Adam shouts back, slipping his way past the few people separating them. “Curtis’ boyfriend.”

“Ex,” Mickey corrects.

Adam nods, face suggesting he doesn’t quite believe it, flashes a smile at a patron sliding past him. “Right. Curtis’ _ex_ -boyfriend.”

“Yeah. Listen, did Curtis have a replacement? Someone who looks like him?” Mickey asks.

Adam’s eyebrows shoot up. “Um, look, I’m not really an expert on getting over somebody, but I don’t really think paying to fuck someone that looks like your ex will help at all.”

“Wh--no, that’s not--” Mickey sputters, mouth snapping shut as he gathers himself.

_This bitchy fuckin’--_

“I need someone that _Gabe_ wouldn’t have known. You catch me?” he dictates carefully to Adam, who stares at him for a second, and then nods in comprehension.

“What are you up to?” Adam asks with a grin. He laughs when Mickey shrugs. “Meet me after closing, at the locker room. I think I’ve got the guy for you.”

* * *

 

It’s 3 am when the club finally shuts down and the last of the patrons trickle out. Mickey stays in the shadows, leaned against the wall beside the door of the office. If anyone sees him, nobody makes him leave. He knocks on the door, which swings open on the second knock. Adam heads the line of lean, half-dressed twinks that peer out at him.

“Hey, Curtis’ ex-boyfriend.”

“It’s Mickey.”

“Sure. Mickey.”

“You find somebody for me?”

Adam swings the door open the rest of the way. “Chris!” he calls over his shoulder, and a pasty redhead with a short, bulky frame emerges, smiling at Mickey.

“You never mentioned he looked like _that_ ,” Chris says to Adam, who shrugs with a smirk.

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Give it a rest, Samwise. I’m sure your throat’s already tired from your shift.”

“My ass isn’t,” Chris responds.

“Jesus Christ, dude,” Mickey grimaces. “Did you not explain what’s happening, here?” he asks Adam.

“Thought I’d let you do it,” Adam answers.

“Thanks.” He turns his attention back to Chris. “I’m not gonna fuck you.” Chris seems to deflate a bit. Maybe it should be an ego boost. It’s just kind of disconcerting. “I need to talk to you, though, so get your shit and let’s go.”

Chris complies, with an expression similar to a scolded dog, and Mickey doesn’t wait for him. He needs to get out of that fucking club as soon as possible. He smokes while he waits.

Chris joins him on the sidewalk a minute later, dressed, shouldering a backpack. “It’s not often that people pay for me to _not_ fuck them.”

“Not my type,” Mickey mumbles around his cigarette.

“Adam said otherwise.”

Mickey stares at him, unimpressed, and the dancer seems to shrink back a bit. “Adam don’t know shit. You’re too short.”

“ _You’re_ short,” Chris points out boldly.

“Exactly,” Mickey shrugs, releasing some smoke. He jerks his head in the direction of his street. “Let’s walk.”

“So if you’re not going to bang me, what do you need me for?” Chris asks, trailing behind Mickey.

“You ever been to Boston?” Mickey asks, not looking back.

There’s a pause. “No,” Chris answers. “I’ve never left Jersey. Why?”

Mickey finishes his cigarette, tossing it to the side and shoving his hands in his pockets. He’s quiet for a moment, before he lays his cards out.

He explains everything: the situation with Gabe, the fact that Ian split, and his plan for revenge.

“So you want _me_ to go with you to _Boston_ to out some rapist politician?” Chris summarizes, as they reach Mickey’s house.

“Yeah,” Mickey confirms, kicking at a rock, watching as it bounces away. “I’ll pay ya. You in?”

Chris huffs out a breath, and stares down the road in thought. Finally, he shrugs. “What do I got to lose?”

* * *

 

The next week is an anxious blur. Mickey packs, Mandy prints the tickets, confirms the hotel reservations Blake has made. Continues to smile at her phone. _That_ is getting suspicious. They all take a few days off.

As Friday approaches, everything starts to feel progressively less real. He thinks maybe, if he acknowledges how insane his course of action really is, he’ll pussy out.

“I still think we should kill him,” Iggy is sure to say at least once a day. Mickey can’t deny that a part of him agrees.

It feels like he blinks on Monday, and he’s sitting on a plane on Friday, no idea how he got there.

He sits in the window seat, next to Chris, who chatters to Iggy, sat in the aisle seat. Mandy, the winner of their rock, paper, scissors tournament, sits blissfully alone three rows back.

It’s only an hour long flight, but it’s long enough that he hates both of his traveling companions with a passion by the end.

Iggy won’t stop making it obvious he’s never been on a plane before, pushing all the buttons and loudly exclaiming, “The bathroom is fuckin’ tiny!” Chris claims he’s terrified of flights, attempting to hold Mickey’s hand, clinging to Iggy instead when Mickey refuses. His idiot brother barely protests.

Mickey is fairly certain that Chris has a good five years on him, at least. And yet, here he is, shaking like a wet cat.

He starts to regret bringing any of them at all.

He tries to swallow down his general irritation at everybody around them when they follow the grain to exit the plane.

There’s a car waiting for them when they find their luggage and head outside. The car ride to the hotel is intensely quiet, the driver attempting no interaction.

Boston is foreign and ritzy, filled with real history and horribly important buildings.

Mickey can’t form a real opinion on it; his life feels like it’s playing out in a tin can, everything anyone says spaced out and hard to hear. It’s all just kind of fake.

Their hotel is over-the-top. Mickey hates it. Doesn’t really understand it. It pisses him off that people just toss money away in places like this.

Alright, maybe he understands a little bit when he falls back onto the bed and finds himself greeted by the softest mattress in the history of mankind.

“So what’s the plan?” Iggy asks as Mandy heads for the bathroom.

“Gonna find his office and wait for him to get out. Follow him a bit. Find out what he’s about, where he lives. If we’re lucky maybe he’ll tell Mrs. Douchebag he’s goin’ out for a drink with the guys and he’ll go lookin’ for a quick fuck. Then we’ll send Chris after him and hope he bites.”

“This all feels kinda fucked up,” Chris worries aloud.

“Yeah, well, fucked up people deserve fucked up things,” Mickey says.

“You seem stressed,” Chris points out, sitting down next to Mickey on the bed. “You sure you don’t want something to take the edge off?”

“Oh my god,” Mickey sighs tiredly. “You are the fuckin’  _ cause _ of my stress.”

“Well let me help, then,” Chris purrs, ignoring Mickey’s pointed glare.

Iggy clears his throat, and Chris snaps to attention. “Barkin’ up the wrong tree, man,” Iggy warns. “Kid’s still so in love with his ex he probably can’t even jack off without feelin’ guilty. It’s kinda sick.”

Mickey’s about to open his mouth to deliver a typical ‘ _ Shut the fuck up,’  _ but he’s cut off by Chris before the first syllable can even breach his lips.

“What about you, then?” Chris asks, leaving both Iggy and Mickey gaping at him.

“Wh--me?” Iggy stutters.

“You got nice arms,” Chris observes. “I like that.”

Iggy seems at a loss for words, mouth opening and closing silently. When he doesn’t immediately refuse, Chris winks at him, rising from the bed and striding toward the bathroom, pausing to pat Iggy on the arm. “Think about it,” he says, leaving Iggy dumbstruck as he disappears behind the bathroom door.

There’s a silence, in which Mickey swallows down laughter and Iggy stares in terror at the far wall. 

“So, uh, Iggy. Somethin’ happen in prison that you haven’t told us about?” Mickey finally asks. 

Iggy takes a moment to frantically shake his head before he speaks. “No!” he insists, eyes wide. “I like girls!”

Mickey shrugs. “Don’t mean you can’t like dudes, too.”

“I don’t like dudes, too!”

“Dude, I don’t mind,” Mickey continues in a sympathetic tone. “You’re not stealin’ my limelight. There’s enough room for both of us to like dick.”

“ _ I don’t like dick. _ ”

“Have you ever  _ tried  _ dick?” Mickey asks.

“This is  _ not  _ what this trip is about, man,” Iggy deflects.

“Have you?”

“No!”

“Then how do you know you don’t like it if you don’t try it?” Mickey asks, raising an eyebrow.

Iggy glares at him. “You fuckin’ sound like Ma sometimes, you know that?”

“Man, if Ma ever tried to get you to fuck a guy, that’s your own problem.”

“I think it’s a problem that  _ you’re  _ so set on getting me to fuck a guy.”

“Do you wanna die somebody who’s never fucked a dude?”

Iggy stares, incredulous. “Is that supposed to be some sorta gotcha moment?”

“ _ Do you want to die someone who has never fucked a dude? _ ”

“Yes!” Iggy exclaims.

Mickey sucks his teeth, and chokes down the laughter bubbling back up in his throat. It always feels great to wind his siblings up, considering he’s, more often than not, the one being teased. 

Iggy relaxes after a moment, turning away when he thinks Mickey is finished to unzip his bag and shuffle through it aimlessly.

“I don’t believe you,” Mickey says to the quiet air, erupting into laughter when Iggy turns and lunges at him, catching him in a headlock and dragging him off the bed by the throat.

“Say I’m straight, asshole,” Iggy demands as Mickey pulls at the arm around his neck and laughs breathily. “Say I’m straight, or--” Iggy’s arm goes slack, and Mickey slips out of his grip, about to turn to deliver a swift suckerpunch, when he sees Chris watching them with a surprised expression.

Iggy coughs, and rubs the back of his neck.

“You ready to get out?” Mickey asks, ignoring his brother's discomfort.

Chris grins. “Right behind you.”

* * *

 

It takes forty minutes of unrequited flirting and extremely requited bickering to finally find Gabe’s office, a beige, unremarkable complex with hundreds of windows. The sky is the palest shade of orange when the three of them stop across the street, at 6 pm.

"So do I actually have to  _fuck_ this guy?" Chris asks as they wait.

"No," Iggy quickly discounts.

"Shit, Iggy. Pretty quick on the draw, there," Mickey observes, swallowing down a smile when his brother glares at him. "You got a problem with the idea of Chris here bangin' someone else?"

"You're lucky we're tryin' to be like fuckin' spies right now or I'd kick your ass," Iggy mumbles.

"It's alright if you're curious," Chris interjects. "It's healthy to develop a curiosity about the same sex at your age, if it didn't happen around puberty."

"You hear that, Ig?" Mickey chides. "I'm sure Chris can answer any questions you got."

Iggy throws up a middle finger, and they fall quiet for a minute, before the older brother breaks the silence.

"So, like, a dick  _in_ your ass?"

Chris opens his mouth to say something, but just then, the revolving door of the building swings around and Gabe himself rushes out, dressed to the nines.

“Fuck,” Mickey hisses, ducking his head. “There he fuckin’ is!”

Chris continues to watch as the man hustles his way up the street. “It’s alright, he didn’t notice us.”

Mickey looks back up and watches as the man turns a corner. “Let’s go,” he orders.

They cross the street and stay back, hands in their pockets and heads lowered, and Mickey has to admit, for an annoying fuck that won’t shut up, Chris is doing alright at being a shadow.

They follow Gabe for about fourteen blocks, the buildings morphing from skyscrapers to squat buildings, until he finally stops at what looks like a club.

_Jackpot._

They hang back while Gabe enters without hesitation.

“He’s goin’ into a gay club in broad daylight?” Iggy mutters.

“In a city where anyone who owns a television could know his face,” Mickey finishes.

It seems strange. Reckless. It seems wrong.

They follow after a minute.

The place is the exact opposite of the Fairy Tail back home: refined, quiet, dimly lit.

Gabe sits at the bar, shuffling through official looking papers and chatting with a less than desirable man with a bald head and glasses.

_What the fuck?_

They keep moving, towards the far end of the club, in a couple of seats in the shadows furthest from the bar.

They’re just settling down when the seat next to Gabe opens up.

“Mick, look,” Iggy points.

Mickey nods. He leans closer to Chris. “Looks like a seat just opened up for you, man.”

Chris smiles in response and rises, making a sauntering line for the seat. Mickey watches as the kid orders a drink and tilts his ear to listen to whatever Gabe and the other man are so intent on discussing. Chris’ eyebrows shoot up in shock at something at the exact moment the bartender delivers something brown in a tall glass. Chris takes his drink and retreats back to their table.

“The fuck, man?” Iggy inquires. “You’re supposed to be grabbin’ his dick by now.”

“He’s coming out,” Chris answers simply, almost breathlessly. He takes a shaky sip of his drink.

Mickey and Iggy stare at him in confusion. “He’s what?” they ask simultaneously.

“Coming out. He’s holding a PR event here tomorrow night to come out as gay,” Chris explains. “Though I don’t really get what the secrecy is about. He’s talking at a normal volume in the middle of a quiet bar. Anyone in the vicinity could hear him.”

“Holy shit,” Mickey breathes, his head swimming.

“I know,” Chris continues. “On one hand, I’m always happy when someone comes out after a long time, but on the other hand, he’s a rapist, so it’s hard to be happy--”

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up,” Mickey barks. Gabe stands with the other man and they shake hands, all smiles and professionalism.

He can’t out someone that’s coming out anyway. What kind of fucking revenge is that? Gabe heads towards the door, and Mickey’s out of his seat and following the man before he can think. He pushes through the doors, twilight imminent, turning to his left to see Gabe walking back the way they came. He flies after him, not stopping to consider whether the streets are empty or not, and there it is, that anger, that psychotic rage, he’d lost it over the past week, but seeing Gabe again, feeling this one last big ‘ _Fuck you!’_ is enough to bring it back.

He catches up to Gabe just in time to shove him hard, to the left into a small alley, stepping in after his stumbling form and blocking the exit.

The flicker of recognition in Gabe’s eyes, immediately followed by a brief fear and then cold, flat-lining nothingness, is enough for Mickey to know he doesn’t have to introduce himself.

“I was gonna let you off kinda easy,” Mickey begins, taking a step towards the larger man. “Blackmail you a bit. For his sake.”

For his sake. They both know who ‘ _him’_ is. Even with his red-tinged vision, Mickey still has enough sense not to use Ian’s real name.

“Get my friend to fuck you, take some pictures. Tell you that if you never came back to my fuckin’ city again, I wouldn’t out your worthless ass.” Mickey sniffs, scratches the tip of his nose. “But you always gotta have the last fuckin’ word, huh?” He shakes his head, and Gabe stares back indignantly. “I wasn’t gonna make you bleed. For him. Because he cared about _me_ . He lived with _me._ What we had was _real_ , not some sad, pathetic, closeted fuck fest with some sad, pathetic, closeted faggot.”

The punch is blinding, black and blue and red and painful. A shout of, “Hey!” rings behind them. The world is still tinged scarlet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh so i underestimated how many chapters there were left bc i decided to go in a different direction with this chapter than what i originally planned lol so idk how many are left  
> comments are my favorite!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can y'all believe this fic is longer than the first two harry potter books bc i can't  
> and i keep worrying i haven't written enough

The asshole hits hard. Mickey has to give him that. The punch might not have been so effective if Mickey had had  _ any _ premonition that it was even coming. He wasn’t even  _ near  _ done with his monologue, and Gabe just cut right in with a fist to Mickey’s face.

It’s not the punch that takes him down, though; no, when Gabe punches him, he’s thrown sideways, and his head cracks against the concrete wall directly to his left, followed by a second punch to the stomach and a kick to his ribs.  _ That’s  _ what takes him down. For the books. 

Mickey’s not sure what the fuck exactly happens after that; he’s never been one to just give up when he’s hurting, but the sound of footsteps and unfamiliar voices behind them stills his instinct to surge back up and hit back harder.

Gabe doesn’t seem to notice, though, delivering one more kick in the exact same spot the previous one had landed. It’s a cheap shot, but it’s the last hit Mickey takes before Iggy or Chris or the club manager or  _ whoever _ the fuck is stepping over him to corner Gabe.

“ _ Put your hands behind your back! _ ”

Oh.  _ That’s _ what’s happening.

He half expects to be drug up by the collar and shoved against the wall. Cops back home can smell the Milkovich on you from a mile away. Instead, a second cop, a woman, squats down beside him and squints. “Y’okay, kid?” she asks.

It’s a calculation that takes approximately 2 seconds to conclude.

_ Gabe is being arrested. For beating on me. Play it up. _

“My ribs fuckin’ hurt,” he wheezes out. And they do, sure, but he’s felt worse. The cops don’t need to know that. He pushes himself up to a half-sitting position, to clear the way for the first cop to escort Gabe back out the alley. The man spits in Mickey’s direction on the way out, but misses dreadfully. Figures.

“Judging from the way your head hit that wall, I’d bet you’ve got a concussion, too,” the cop comments.

“Yeah, I could believe that,” he answers, lifting a hand to rub at his head. She smiles a bit, stands, and offers him a hand, pulling him up easily. He doubles over slightly with the sting in his abdomen and the spinning in his vision.

“You’re lucky we were patrolling past right when he hit you, kid,” the woman says as she leads him back towards the main street. “Most victims of these kinds of hate crimes get themselves landed in physical therapy for months.”

Hate crimes? 

_ Hate crimes. _

Maybe it should be the furthest thing from his mind, but he can’t resist half-jokingly asking, “Is it really that obvious that I like guys?” 

The cop snorts, and he glances up to find the sky has gone dark gray with impending night. “Fist to the face outside a gay club usually means hate crime,” she explains. He watches as Gabe is helped into the police car with unfocused eyes. 

It isn’t satisfying. He never got to throw the punch, never got to have that crisply vindictive moment to land a concrete victory. It’s fucking anticlimactic. 

“Mick!”

His brother’s voice sounds far away, like it’s a recording being played on a phone.

“Are you going to be alright, kid?”

“Mickey?”

He zeroes in on Gabe’s face, boring a hole through the window of the police car, and it’s strange, it’s supremely strange, that it feels as if he's looking at his own reflection.

* * *

He thinks maybe he stares long enough that midnight takes over and night falls, but when he blinks again he opens his eyes to find himself in an unfamiliar room.

“What the fuck?” he slurs, blinking hard. He raises his fingers to the bruised side of his face, where Gabe’s fist connected, expecting to feel the sharp sting of fresh impact, but he only finds a dull ache. He glances around the space; the walls are beige, the sheets are beige, the wood of the meager furniture is a slightly lighter shade of beige. 

“You’re awake!” a voice exclaims.

Mickey freezes.

_ No. It couldn’t be… _

He turns to his left, and his eyes find the source.

It’s him. His fucking nightmare, sitting in a wicker chair beside the bed. Green eyes and red hair and the pounding in Mickey’s chest are unmistakeable. 

“Hey,” Ian greets, with a smile. A smile, like nothing’s happened. Like they’d seen each other just yesterday. “You really got your ass handed to you.”

Mickey can’t seem to find the words to express his confusion.

_ Where am I? Why are you here? What the fuck? _

Ian laughs at his stunned silence, abandoning the chair to nudge Mickey aside and join him on the small bed, their lips a single syllable apart. Ian reaches a hand down and tangles his fingers with Mickey’s, and he’s still silent, because what could he possibly say? But the supernova in his skin when Ian touches him again is the realest thing he’s felt in weeks.

“We’re gonna be okay,” Ian tells him softly. “You and me.”

And Mickey doesn’t know if he means  _ them  _ as a whole, or them as two separate parts, but either way, it generates a terrible and wonderful relief in his lungs. He’s warm. Ian’s eyes are warm and so is he. 

He closes his eyes, swimming in Ian’s words. Opens them a minute later to the midnight dark of his Boston hotel room. 

It’s fucking freezing.

“Mickey? You awake?” a different voice whispers.

Chris, Mickey thinks. It’s Chris, sitting by his bed. He really is awake, now.

“Yeah,” Mickey confirms weakly, and maybe he has to fight the urge to break down in tears.

“You passed out,” Chris explains quietly. “Probably from smacking your head against a wall.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says again.

“Been a few hours. I was supposed to call the hospital if you didn’t wake up again.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t wanna pay the bill.”

Chris falls silent, and Mickey thinks maybe he might be able to surrender to sleep again until Chris speaks up again.

“Who’s Ian?”

Mickey nearly jumps at the name. “Huh?”

“Ian. You said it in your sleep.”

Mickey’s throat feels tight with the reality of his dream. It’s pathetic, and it’s heartbreaking, and he just wants to shut his eyes and try his best to go back into whatever alternate world that was where he knows where Ian is and where they stand.

“Was he your ex?” Chris asks when Mickey greets his first question with silence.

“Yeah,” Mickey relents.

“The one you did all this for?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he gonna take you back, now?”

Mickey swallows away his terror. “I don’t know.”

“Are you gonna go ask him to take you back?”

“Don’t think I can.”

“Why not?”

“He lives halfway across the fuckin’ country.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Chris shuffles in his seat a bit, maybe to get comfortable, maybe to fill the quiet. “You must really love him a lot,” Chris comments after a minute.

“That’s what everyone says,” Mickey replies.

“Well, don’t you?”

Mickey rolls onto his side, away from Chris, tucking his arms beneath the pillow under his head.

It’s answer enough.

* * *

When he wakes up again, he notices two things at once: it’s bright, and everything hurts. Everything.

He’s slow to realize he’s alone in the room, save for the muted sound of his sister’s voice on the balcony.

It takes some effort to get himself up, but he’s felt worse. Much worse. 

He considers getting a drink of water and just going back to bed, regardless of the time, but his curiosity about the whole Gabe situation gets the better of him. He heads for the balcony without another thought.

“--maybe I’ve missed you a little,” Mandy admits into her phone as Mickey carefully slides the door shut, and he bristles when he realizes it must be Gabe’s brother.   
Fraternizing with the enemy. Fucking typical of his lawless family.

“I have to go,” Mandy tells Blake when she turns to see Mickey. “Have to get ready to see you.”

“What the fuck, Mandy?” Mickey prods before she’s even ended the call.

“What?” she replies nonchalantly.

“We got the job done. You don’t have to keep talking to that dick,” Mickey reminds her. She rolls her eyes, turning back to the balcony railing. “No, don’t fuckin’ give me that.” He steps forward to stand beside her, trying to catch her eye. She gazes out into the Boston skyline, dead set on ignoring him. 

“Mandy, his brother’s a fuckin’ rapist,” Mickey continues. “He’s a douchebag. He catches me in one bad mood and he darts. And now, tryin’ to buy your forgiveness--”

“Jesus Christ!” Mandy exclaims loudly, whipping towards him. He jumps back a hair at the anger in her voice. She looks at him like he’s a stranger, and like she knows him so well it’s making her sick. “Not fucking everything is about you, Mickey!”

“What are--”

“You! You--fucking, you make  _ everything  _ about you. Everything. It’s always fucking been about you.  _ You  _ had to be Ma’s favorite.  _ You  _ had to graduate high school.  _ You  _ had to find fucking...love at first sight. And  _ you  _ dragged us out here. You didn’t fucking ask us. You never fucking ask us.” She pauses, her breathing slightly erratic, eyes darting between Mickey’s, who stares back in quiet shock. “ _ You  _ scared Blake away. You met him  _ once _ , and you thought you knew him. Broke up  _ my _ relationship, all because you were pissed you didn’t have the balls to tell Ian you were unhappy. And then you  _ tell  _ me--you don’t fucking ask, you  _ tell  _ me, to lie to my ex-boyfriend, to scam him out of what is probably thousands of dollars of expenses…” She trails off, mouth open, something on the tip of her tongue. 

Mickey waits, veins burning with his denial of the truth of her words. “What?” he demands. “What else?”

She inhales sharply, eyes not falling from Mickey’s. “Blake and I had a mature relationship. Mutual fucking respect. I care about him.”

“What are you tryin’ to say, that Ian and I didn’t?” Mickey asks, wincing at the choked laugh that escapes Mandy’s lips.

“Oh my god! You’re still fucking--” She bites off her sentence, turning back to glare out at the street below. She wipes her shining eyes, and Mickey’s gut twists when he realizes she’s a hair away from tears. She shudders out a sigh, gripping the railing of the balcony with a faint sway of her legs. “I’m fucking staying in Boston,” she finally spits out, refusing to lift her eyes from the hum of the city. “I’ve already got it all planned with Blake.”

Mickey gapes at her, searching for some evidence that this is just some big prank. Something. Anything.

Nothing.

“You’ve known the guy for three fuckin’ months!” Mickey objects. “And now you wanna move to a completely different  _ state  _ for him? Mandy, that’s fuckin’ nuts--” 

“Do you even hear yourself?” Mandy interrupts, throwing her hands up, eyes manic. “ _ You knew Ian for one fuckin’ week!” _

“Yeah, and look where that’s fuckin’ got me!” Mickey yells, wincing against a surge of pain in his ribs, causing Mandy to go abruptly silent.

And it’s a horrible feeling, to say something so vague but so palpable out loud. Like admitting general defeat. Waking up from a dream and realizing no fantasy, no matter how vivid, will ever be real.

And he wants to sit and feel sorry for himself and brood and mull over a million thoughts that should probably be written down but he can’t, standing here, blinking, proving Mandy’s point, faced with the news that his sister is leaving and only able to think about his own problems.

But that’s how everyone is, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Everyone only thinks about themselves.

“We’re suffocating in Jersey, Mick,” Mandy says, gentler, and Mickey has to wonder how much time has passed for the bite in her voice to have dissolved. Could be hours, for all he knows. “We’re fucking suffocating.”

“It’s our home,” Mickey protests.

“It’s our fucking prison.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Mandy.”

“It’s our fucking prison,” Mandy repeats, turning to Mickey once more. “I want to find something more to do with my fucking life.”

“Everyone does,” Mickey counters. “Don’t mean all of us find it.”

“You could’ve gone to college,” Mandy insists, and he finally looks away, down to the shifting of the street. “You’re smart. You still  _ could  _ go to college.”

“For fucking what?” Mickey asks defensively. “Graduating high school ain’t a unique skill in the real fuckin’ world.”

“I don’t know, accounting? Engineering? You’re good at math,” Mandy points out. She shakes her head softly. “That’s besides the point. We’re wasting our fucking lives acting like we can’t leave that city. When really…” She blows her bangs away from her eyes, leans forward on the railing. “Really, nothing’s stopping us.”

Mickey turns back out to the skyline, and a breeze shudders past him. The feeling that Mandy is watching him swells, but he doesn’t look over. Just watches the granite steadiness of the rooftops. It’s bullshit that they don’t sway in the wind, he thinks. Only mountains were meant to be that big and sturdy. Immovable.

“You’re never gonna be done, are you?” Mandy asks the cold air. Mickey raises an eyebrow in silent question. “Ian,” she clarifies. “You’re never gonna get over him.”

His eyes focus on a person in a bright red coat, weaving through the crowd alone. “He’s, ah…” He lets out a hitched breath. “It, I guess,” he finishes. “Feels like it.”

“No one’s ever really  _ it _ ,” Mandy disputes.

Mickey shrugs, and leans forward on the railing beside her. “Feels like it,” he repeats. 

And alright, maybe he has no fucking clue what ‘it’ means, but he does know that Ian hasn’t left his mind since the last time they were together.

He shifts, reaching into his jacket pocket for a cigarette and a lighter. It seems like the right moment to smoke.

“People hear the news yet?” Mickey asks after he lights up, turning the conversation away from himself. 

Mandy snorts. “That Congressional Representative Tellmyre is an alleged gay-basher? Who hasn’t? Turn on any local news station and that’s what you’re gonna see. You better get out of the city before it's your face they're plastering everywhere.”

Mickey offers her the cigarette with a smug grin. “Really ruined that fucker’s year, though, huh? Kickin’ the shit out of some homo in an alley outside a gay club ain’t press that just dissolves overnight.”

“There were probably more graceful ways of getting revenge than getting the shit kicked out of you, but sure,” Mandy points out around the cigarette. 

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees. “Wasn’t even plan C, if I’m honest. But hey,” he holds a hand out for the cigarette, “better him in cuffs than me.”

“Cops called an hour ago, by the way. You’ve gotta stick around for questioning,” Mandy informs him. 

“There gonna be a trial?”

“Only if you press charges. You gonna press charges?” Mandy asks.

Mickey barks out a strained laugh. “For what? He’ll just fuckin’ bribe his way out of it. It’s not like that shit was unprovoked.” He lifts the cigarette to his lips. “I mean, I probably would’ve smashed  _ his  _ head against a building if he’d let me talk for a few more seconds.”

“Yeah,” Mandy assents. “I want to avoid letting Blake know about the whole shitstorm if I can.”

She doesn’t say it with much conviction, and suddenly, Mickey understands. She isn’t leaving to be with Blake. She really is just leaving to leave. For herself. 

That’s the difference between them, he thinks. Mandy understands herself as an individual. She does things for herself, as an individual. And she’s right. What the hell is he doing with himself? But if he were to go anywhere, he knows where, and he knows why. It wouldn’t be for himself. Well, maybe in a way, it would be. But not fully. Not wholly. He doesn’t know what he’d do with himself.

“You really think I could go to fuckin’ college?” he asks her suddenly, passing the cigarette. 

Mandy nods, like the answer’s obvious. “Everyone thought you would.”

“Never even thought about it.”

Mandy huffs out the last of the smoke, and tosses the cigarette. “There are plenty of schools in Chicago, Mick,” she says quietly.

He opens his mouth to say something, to voice every concern he has, to ask every question stirring in his mind, but the muffled bang of the door inside their room steals away whatever he might have produced next. The siblings spin to see Iggy and Chris through the patio door, brown paper bags, presumably filled with breakfast, in hand.

Mickey and Mandy look at each other, smile sadly for a second. A rare moment. An odd moment.

They abandon the tiny balcony for breakfast soon enough.

* * *

“Alright, Mr. Milkovich, let’s get started.”

“Is this gonna take long?” Mickey asks, eyeing the bristled, flabby man that’s supposed to be questioning him. “I got a flight to catch tonight.”

“Not at all, if you cooperate,” the officer says. He’s got a way about his speech that makes it sound like he’s reading out of a handbook.

They sit in a gray room, at a gray desk, where the officer scribbles on a gray clipboard.

“They really coulda stepped it up with the color scheme in here,” Mickey observes. The officer pauses his scribbling and raises an eyebrow at him. “Back in Jersey the table’s red,” he explains after a moment.

The officer responds with what could be a roll of his eyes (though it’s hard to tell with such hooded eyelids) and he sets down his pen. 

“Why don’t you just explain what happened on Friday night?” the officer prompts.

Mickey shrugs, and racks his brain for the story he and his family had concocted. “Yeah, alright. I was walkin’ with my two friends out of the bar, and this guy, he calls out at me, looks real excited about somethin’, and he asks me if I wanna bang. And that’s what I’m here for, right? My sister’s visiting her boyfriend, wanted me to come along, what the hell else was I gonna do? Anyway, this guy asks me if I wanna bang, and it’s low-light, and he’s good-looking enough, so I say yeah, I do wanna bang. And when you’re queer, sir, an alley fuck ain’t anything to be suspicious of. So I follow him in. Then while I’m waiting for his go ahead, I’m lookin’ at him and I start thinkin’ I might know this guy. Then just as I’m realizing it’s my sister’s boyfriend’s brother, he just turns and fuckin’ slugs me. No idea why. Anyway, he punched me, and punched me, and then he kicked me, and then he kicked me again...how detailed do you need this to be? I passed out and woke up in the hotel room. That’s all I remember. And, uh, as you can see,” he motions to the bruising on his face, “I’ve been feelin’ it.”

“You didn’t immediately recognize who he was?” the officer asks with a hint of skepticism.

“I’ve only met him once,” Mickey lies. “Real brief, already had a few drinks. A couple months ago, too. Still wasn’t sure it was him ‘til my sister told me.”

The officer is silent, writing for a few moments, and then he releases a big sigh. “Alright, Mr. Milkovich, because we have no proof that this was a hate crime, the opposing party was not physically harmed in any way, and because you are choosing not to press charges, you are free to go without further questioning.”

Mickey stands, gathering up his coat before he pauses. “Is anything gonna happen to him?”

The officer stares at him with scrutiny, before sighing again. “Well, frankly, Mr. Milkovich, this is not Congressman Tellmyre’s first brush with the law, and two police officers witnessed the full assault. I would not be surprised if he faces consequences in his career from here on out.”

Mickey nods, thanks the man (mostly for seeming to give no fucks about the legitimacy of the story) and vacates the small station as quickly as possible.

* * *

Both Mandy and Blake escort them to the airport that night. Blake genuinely does not seem aware that his brother is the source of Mickey’s bruises and occasional pause between words to breathe through the pain in his ribs; in fact, Blake doesn’t say much beyond a brief greeting and an inquiry as to who the fuck Chris is. Iggy was informed that Mandy wasn’t coming home while Mickey was at the station, and anyone that doesn’t know his brother might think he doesn’t give a single fuck, but Mickey knows it’s just a matter of time before Iggy’s a goddamn mess. It won’t be surprising if he has a meltdown in the middle of their fucking flight.

In the terminal, they pause, and Chris and Blake hang back, shuffling awkwardly, while the siblings part ways. 

“You have a job lined up?” Iggy inquires, voice heavy with badly concealed concern.

Mandy shrugs. “Figure something out. Big city.”

“And you’re  _ sure  _ about that guy?” Mickey stresses. 

Mandy smiles, without a care. “No.”

Mickey has to fight a smile in return. 

Maybe he understands.

It’s then that he pulls his sister into a tight hug.

“You still have Gallagher’s address?” Mickey asks quietly, as Mandy rests her chin on his shoulder.

Mandy squeezes him tighter. “Top dresser drawer.”

They pull away, and Mickey sucks in a breath. “You better call if shit goes south.”

“I’ll call even if it doesn’t, asshole,” Mandy answers.

“You owe us for waiting to tell Colin until we’re back in Jersey, dude,” Iggy informs her as he accepts his own hug. 

Mandy rolls her eyes. “Please. Do you really want a list of everything I  _ haven’t told  _ Colin about you two? Do you really want to do that?”

Both brothers pause, share a glance. Reflect on their respective sins.

“We’re square, then?” Mickey offers after a moment. 

Mandy smiles with faux sweetness. “That’s better.”

“Not to rush you guys, but our flight leaves in thirty minutes,” Chris calls.

“Well,” Mandy sighs. “Take care of yourselves.”

Mickey and Iggy nod, unable to produce anything that would feel right in the moment. It feels more final than Mickey would like. A truly horrible uneasiness forms that tempts him to bubble out what bullshit this is, that he’s losing his best friend to some rich pussy asshole.

But he can’t. Not when he knows, deep down, he’s thinking of leaving, too.

It all seems to go too fast, then. Mickey hasn’t felt it, yet, the abrasive panic of change, but waving one last time, boarding the plane, his sister freshly gone, the tight space making it hard to breathe.

Iggy and Chris sit next to each other, and Mickey has a seat alone at the front of the section, in between an apathetic man in a suit and a girl in a college sweatshirt who takes three pills when they board and subsequently passes out. By Mickey’s standards, that’s lucking out.

He’s not sure if he actually has a concussion, but by the way his head grows light when they take off in a way it didn’t previously, he can safely assume that his head injury is not a fan of the high altitude. 

The plane, a fairly nice airline with complimentary movie screens in the back of each seat, has a shitty selection of films. Mickey browses them, bored, until a title catches his eye.

_ Superman _ . The original. 

Ian’s favorite movie, he remembers. 

He swallows. Presses play on an impulse. 

The flight is over before he can even finish it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh sorry this is short and rushed honestly i'm just really tired of writing chapters without any Ian at all and i just want to move on lol also i have been questioned by the police before but it was for something that happened like a very very long time ago and i was questioned despite deciding not to press charges but it was not for assault so idrk much about going through the process and what all would happen so sorry if this is inaccurate i just didn't want to land Mickey in prison for assaulting a government official and it wasn't realistic that Mickey would win in court against a respected politician and also i am literally lazy and sick of focusing on Gabe and if i had to write a whole extension of the plot about Mickey going to court i would literally never finish the fucking chapter. so. here.  
> please leave your thoughts in the comments!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it might be helpful to compare ian's journal entries to Mickey's POV if you care enough but they can be read on their own, they're just more abstract

_May 31st, ‘16_

_I met a boy. His eyes are the blue I expected to see in the ocean._

_His name is Mickey, and he’s offered me a place to stay for a week in return for nothing. He just asked that I skip out on working the corner._

_Now I’m gathering my things at the place I’ve been squatting, and hoping to God I never have to come back._

* * *

_June 1st, ‘16_

_A lot of information has been thrown at me in the past 24 hours and I just need to write it all out to make sure I’ve absorbed it all._

_Mickey, Mandy, and Colin, my hosts, are three of the most intensely interesting people I have ever met. The way they talk reminds me of home. All very real and sporadic._

_Mandy is an extremely smart and funny girl around my age, the youngest. Last night, when I first met her, she was very nice to me, in her own way. The way people in my neighborhood are nice, in that reluctant, give-you-shit-for-it way. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone that I’ve clicked with so quickly. I feel like I’ve been best friends with her since kindergarten. We were talking last night, after everyone else went to bed, and she told me sometimes she feels her brothers are overprotective of her, and that she really wants nothing more than to get out of New Jersey and start over somewhere else, on her own, but she feels stuck helping pay the bills. Like she might break some family code about sticking together. I told her that’s how I felt, too, before I ran away, and that she should talk to her family about it before she makes any big decisions._

_It was good. She made me feel at home. Like I could be honest and not be afraid of the repercussions._

_I met Colin today. He’s large in every aspect and objectively terrifying. He quite obviously doesn’t want me here, but I can’t resent him for it, because I understand. He wants to protect his family. I’m a stranger in his house, not paying rent, and if I’m honest, I do have things to hide. I’m not the best person to trust. I don’t ever mean to hurt people, but it happens. I guess that’s how the world is. Anyway, I can handle him disliking me, if I’m only staying here for a week._

_Then, there’s Mickey. I saved him last for dramatic effect because I’ve got so much to say. I have known him for a grand total of one day, and already, I can say that he is the most complex person I have ever met and probably ever will meet. There was a time when I might have said that about Jaq, but it would have been a lie. Jaq was some tortured artist, and he really needed everyone to know it. Mickey just exists. He just is. And if I wasn’t absolutely certain he would threaten to deck me if I said that, I would tell him so. And that’s the strange thing. He’s the one that offered me a place here for no reason, but back home, if I saw him out at night, I’d cross to the other side of the street. When he called out to me and the guy I was going to go home with last night, I was sure I was about to take the brunt of a fag bashing. Maybe that’s just my big welcome to the east coast: fuck you and your shitty, narrow minded expectations._

_When he invited me, I thought it was a proposition. Fuck me for a week, have food and a place to sleep for a week. Like, a boyfriend experience, but sadder. And in any other situation, I probably would have said no. A week of monogamy with no way to save up money? Sounds like an awful investment. But (and this is embarrassing in hindsight) I thought he was hot as hell. Approximately one thousand times hotter than any paying client I have ever had. Mickey’s gorgeous in this unique way, he’s funny, he’s got an attitude that reminds me of home, and he’s got a heart of gold. I’d fuck him for free. There’s only one, small problem! He’s straight._

_I mean, I have my doubts, because when I tried to hold up my end of the bargain and I came onto him, it was fucking electric, like he didn’t believe it when he told me to stop. I swear. So, today, we went to find me a job at this club over in the gay district, and the owner didn’t like Mickey, so I had to give him a lapdance to get the job, to prove I can dance. Yes, that’s real. That was my life, today. Are we surprised at this point? I went at it full force, threw everything I learned in La Famille at him, but he was rock solid. Unphased. Slightly uncomfortable, maybe, but unbothered. He just seemed like he was itching for it to be over. Seems like a typical straight guy, to me. But he just gives me this vibe that there’s something intense and incredible waiting to happen between us. That maybe he feels it, too. It’s all very confusing._

_I can’t believe I’m fawning over a boy like I’m back in high school after everything that’s happened. Where the fuck is my mind? I’m a runaway prostitute with no considerable future, no worth, and nothing to offer. If it weren’t for my circumstances, I wouldn’t even be an interesting person. I’ll just be grateful for what I’m being gifted right now and try not to fuck it up._

_I’m finding myself being very honest, again. Or, maybe, for the first time. Ever. I’ve always been lying about something. From being gay to my fucking name. Mickey saw right through my fake name, though. Maybe that’s part of it._

_I had the Monica nightmare, again, though. While everyone was out of the house. I always get weird after one of those. Spacey. It’s become especially bad after I was kicked out of boot camp, because all I can think about is, that could be me. I could become her._

_Mickey came home while I was spaced, and I expected him to just give up or call me a fucking freak, like my family used to, and like the guys at basic used to. But he didn’t. He was quiet, and patient, and gentle. Fearless, maybe. I was honest with him. For the first time since I left Chicago, I was honest about it, in the best way I could be. He stayed with me, got me to eat, waited until I was back in working order. He made me feel better, without some big heart-to-heart. I nearly kissed him. I would have just done it, if his sister hadn't walked in. How dumb would that have been? A day in and I nearly kissed him._

_I always do this. I think life can be like a romance novel, that love at first sight is a real thing. It isn’t. I’ve been through too much to be acting this stupid. I should know better, should have more control over myself. But I’m feeling something. Something that kind of breaks through all the other somethings. Something that makes more sense. Only jumbled if I think about it too long. I can’t tell if it’s horrible or wonderful._

_My first night of work went well. It’s just like what I did at La Famille, but easier, and less exciting._

_I think the best thing to do from here would be to take advantage of this week long free ride and then get the fuck out._

* * *

_June 2nd, ‘16_

_I think I believe in soulmates. I’m not really sure, but it makes sense. Because there’s a lot of ways it could be real, right? It could be something in our chemistry, or our genetics. It could have something to do with where our atoms ended up immediately after the creation of the universe. Atoms once close just come back together lifetime after lifetime. Humans have souls, a consciousness that we can’t shed. And when we die, where does all that energy go? All that matter? Is it recycled, so we can keep finding the same people? Maybe I’m just saying I believe in reincarnation. But not in the sense that we get wiser with each new life. Just maybe that we’re given a set expanse of people that will mean something in every lifetime._

_I think Mickey is one of those people. I think this city is where we both started._

_He kissed me today._

_And maybe I should feel used or something, that he really is attracted to me and maybe didn’t take me in just because he’s a kind person. But I don’t. I don’t feel used._

_He’s offered to let me live with them, if I start paying rent. That’s when it happened, when I asked him why the hell he’s doing all this for me._

_It was gentle and innocent and easy. Like perfect first kisses should be._

_The first time Jaq kissed me, we had sex. The first time Ned kissed me, it was after he’d paid me, and after we’d had sex._

_I’ve been doing everything so backwards that, now that I’ve got someone to go forward with, I’m scared out of my fucking mind._

_He’s offered to take me out. Like normal people in normal circumstances. I think he’s just as terrified as I am. That’s comforting, somehow._

_I talked to him about Jaq. I wish I could have said it all. He would have listened. He really would have. He would have remembered everything I said._

_But it’s hard, to admit failure like that._

_I said the bare minimum, but it was enough. I’ve never said anything to anyone._

_He talked to me about his parents, a little bit._

_It wasn’t like the night Jaq and I talked about our parents. It wasn’t all tragic backstory, like we’re fictional characters that need to explain everything in fucking detail. Mickey is real. He’s very real. He makes me feel real. And okay. He makes me feel okay._

_I want to stop comparing him to Jaq, but Jaq is the only other romance I’ve ever had. And with every passing day, I’m realizing how delusional I was to not see what a tremendous piece of shit Jaq was from the beginning. How fake and calculated everything he did was. I hate that I told him anything about myself._

_I told Mickey I’m not ready for a boyfriend. Because I’m scared. I’m not ready. Especially not with someone closeted._

_Which is strange, because he doesn’t act closeted. He’s so free. Everything he does is shameless and easy. I’m waiting for him to get cold feet and bolt, and it hasn't been long, but so far, he’s stayed put. Maybe I just need to let him do things at his own pace before I can feel safe staying._

_Like I said, I’m scared. I have to swallow down the impulse to just leave town every couple of minutes, because this all just seems too good. And things this good don’t happen to me._

_Writing that sentence made me remember: Gabe, my regular, found me. So far, he’s just paid for dances, but it’s only a matter of time before he asks me for something more, and I don’t know what I’ll say when he does. I’ve never had a problem with it before, but now, something in my moral compass has been shaken into function again._

_I don’t want to fuck for money, anymore. It’s degrading enough that the only job I can score is stripping._

_And there’s Mickey. I can tell he meant it when he said his house is open if I give up the sex work._

_And I don’t want to know what he’d do if I kept seeing Gabe and he found out._

* * *

_June 3rd, ‘16_

_I want to say that I’m going to try to focus on something other than Mickey, to write about something other than him, but it’s hard. I want to say that I’m cynical, that this all seems too good and easy and sweet, but it’s hard._

_But nothing's easy. My cynicism is justified, in the worst way._

_Tonight, Gabe paid to fuck. I didn’t know how to say no._

_No, that’s not fair. I didn’t think about saying no. I don’t think I thought at all._

_Why am I doing this? Making the same mistakes again? I know where this leads, but it’s like someone cut the brake line and I’m rolling full speed at a brick wall. That’s how it feels._

_Mickey waited up for me. I don’t think I really knew what I’d done until he smiled at me the second he saw me._

_I think he idealizes me. I think I’m something new and pretty and exciting. But he’s too good for me. He’s too kind and brave and I need to make a decision before I hurt him. I need to leave, or I need to end it with Gabe._

* * *

_June 5th, ‘16_

_I did it again, last night. Gabe waved around a stack of bills and I said yes like it was nothing._

_I’m doing it again. Taking and taking and taking. I need to stop. I need to stop._

_I’m supposed to go on my first fucking date tomorrow. But that would be suicide, right? I need to end it with Gabe tonight. There are plenty of other twinks for him to fuck. I can’t make the same mistakes again. I can’t do that. Preventative action._

_It will all be fine._

* * *

_June 6th, ‘16_

_Gabe said no. I feel the same as when Monica slit her wrists._

_I told my coworker because he asked, but I want to forget it ever happened._

* * *

_June 6th, ‘16_

_I’m lying again. But it’s not the same, it doesn’t feel light. It sticks in my throat for a second before it comes out._

_It’s worse that Mickey’s believing me._

_His brother came home from prison today. Mickey gave me his bed so I wouldn’t have to sleep on the couch._

_He’s a good person. I’m not a good person. I’m not anything. I think all I’ve got is some big empty space where my heart is supposed to beat. I think whoever made me decided to give me a really great body so they could feel okay with giving me a brain that doesn’t work right._

_Is this how it started with my mother? Lying out of fear of hurting people? Running because it will sting less?_

_I lied to him, this morning. He asked where I was at breakfast. I told him I went to church, instead of the truth. I haven’t been to church since the first few weeks of boot camp. He asked if I was with Gabe last night. I was. I froze up and told some stupid lie about Gabe coming to my “church”. Maybe it was my subconscious trying to get him to worry without me saying anything. I tried to leave, after Gabe made me stay. Leave Mickey’s house. Maybe catch a ride to Atlantic City. Go back to Philly. Fade away, like a short summer. Because that’s what I deserve. That’s what’s best. But I couldn’t. I didn’t even take my things. I knew I wasn’t leaving. How selfish is that?_

_We went on a date. It was thoughtful and interesting and unique and sexy and I didn’t deserve any of it._

_I told him all about my family. Just kept running my mouth, talking about myself, and he listened. He just always listens to what I say. It’s bullshit._

_He told me about his family a little more, too. About his dead, drug lord father and ghosted siblings._

_He’s fearless. Mickey’s fearless. Honest. There’s something about him that makes me feel safe, for a little bit._

_I’m honest with him, but in the wrong ways. Because what does it matter what my family was like? What does it matter what my favorite movie is, or what I wanted to be when I grew up? What does it matter? Half the time I want to scream how much none of it matters, but then he looks at me and listens and I can tell he’ll remember whatever it is I’ll say and I can’t bring myself to do it. Because maybe it does matter. Maybe Mickey Milkovich has the world figured out, and all that you really need to know about a person before you fall in love is their favorite movie and what their family is like and what they wanted to be when they grew up._

_I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing. I just know, when he kisses me, I can only just remember my own name. And I can’t leave, now._

* * *

_June 9th, ‘16_

_Being with him makes me happy in the real way, not the hollow, air thin way. I’m scared I’ll fuck it up but I can’t stop._

* * *

_June 11th, ‘16_

_Tonight, Gabe and I came to a compromise._

_He paid me for a private room while Mickey was there, at the club, and I think it finally sunk in, for me. I felt sick. I felt like a fucking con artist. Heartless._

_I told Gabe I couldn’t do this every night._

_It was risky. I’m surprised he didn’t fucking kill me for suggesting it. But he was open, and we decided, every Sunday morning, my day off, I’d meet with him._

_I think I fucked it anyway, though. With Mickey._

_He slept with somebody else, while I was with Gabe._

_And I don’t deserve to be angry. I’m a liar, and a cheater, and a fucking coward and I don’t deserve to feel anything. I don’t deserve to be angry, but I am._

_I wasn’t even surprised when he told me. Because I’ve been telling myself for weeks, now, that it’s all too good to be real. Something told me that it was a moment to shake and to choke and to cry but I didn’t. I lied my way through it. I lie my way through everything. Made it seem like my idea, because it can’t be his idea, that would mean he’s winning. It’s funny how it’s changed, like the flip of a switch. Changed to feel like some sort of stupid, toxic competition._

_And we’re open, if that’s what he wants. Because we are anyway, aren’t we? I’m fucking Gabe, he’s fucking whoever. I can’t be dumb enough to think I’ll find someone who wants me, and only me. He just came out, I can’t be naïve enough to think he’d only want me. No one has ever just wanted me._

_Except Gabe. I guess intimidating me into sex is sickly romantic._

_It hurts to think that Gabe is currently the one person alive who knows me the most truthfully._

_This is who I am, I suppose. No getting past it._

_We said we’d tell each other if we hook up with someone else, but I can’t expect him to be honest when I’ve been fucking Gabe for weeks without a word._

_I don’t know what this means. I don’t know if this means we’re a couple, or if we’re just friends, or if we’re just nothing, just in some weird space with nothing to do but pretend to be happy._

_I’m not thinking about Chicago too much anymore. Not really, until tonight. I’m wondering what Lip would have to say about all of this. About Mickey, about Gabe, about the ocean. I’m wondering what advice Fiona would give._

_I’m wondering if I would even talk to them about it._

_I don’t know why I don’t talk like other people. I can talk, but I can’t talk the way I need to. Tell me how you’re supposed to have a happy life when you’re a kid who can’t talk. When you open your mouth and nothing that you really think comes out._

_I used to be able to talk better. Or maybe I never could. I was always quiet. I don’t know if it’s a matter of fear, or empathy, or some predetermined programming, but there’s so many things that I want to say that I will never, ever get to say._

_Maybe I can write it down, but even then, what’s the point? Who sees this? Who would I show this to? Who wouldn’t read this and roll their eyes and just think I had everything coming?_

* * *

_June 15th, ‘16_

_I don’t want to say this, because God forbid I be wrong, but I think everything might be okay, if you wade past how fucked everything constantly is._

_We’re sleeping in the same bed, and it’s good, it feels safe, because if he’s there I know he’s not with someone else._

_I think maybe he might be able to tell how much this whole “open” thing is fucking with me. He’s acting like my boyfriend, now, like he’s using public affection as some sort of reassurance that he isn’t bored of me, specifically._

_I don’t think he’s fucked anyone, but who knows? I’m gone for 8 hours, 6 nights a week, so how do I know what he does? The only information I have is what I see and what he tells me._

_Maybe I just need to get over it. Accept what is. What I can get. Be the one that bends, for a change. Because he isn’t in my head, yet, but he’s in my skin, and if he leaves it'll hurt._

* * *

_June 17th, ‘16_

_I run every morning. Every morning. The sunrise is beautiful, but I usually just stare at the ocean. I wonder if the water actually has a color at all, because in the morning, it’s white and orange and blue and during the day it’s green and gray and brown and at night it’s nothing, just a loud little universe. I wonder what the fuck is going on under there, too. There’s so much we don’t know about the ocean, that we just aren’t built to know. Maybe there’s a whole society under there, a whole metropolitan expanse that we’ll never know about, built by some race of superior fish people that just can’t survive on land. We're so ignorant about the world, as a species. It’s really incredible._

* * *

_June 18th, ‘16_

_Mandy’s dating a new guy. She says they’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks now, that they started a little bit after I moved in. She really likes him a lot._

_They met at the restaurant that she works at, and he gave great tips, apparently. So great that she decided to ask, “Why do you give such great tips?” She’s got balls. And it worked, because they’re together and they’re happy and I envy her a little bit because it seems so simple and grown up and honest between them._

_I’ve been spending time with Iggy, Mickey’s ex-con brother. He’s funny and laid-back, and he doesn’t ask a lot of questions about me, which I like. We smoke and play a lot of video games that I’m really bad at when Mickey’s at work, and he tells me about prison sometimes. Lately he’s been mentioning his dad, Terry. He seems to see his father a bit differently than the others. Mickey and Mandy never knew him, and Colin was old enough to grow to hate him, I think, but Iggy was seven when he was arrested, and he seems to still have this unique love and defensiveness for his father._

_It’s sad, but I relate. Monica is selfish, and an addict, and she was never there. But I still love her. I still worry about her, and wonder if she’s alright. Wonder if she’s finally getting help. If she’s found someone that loves her enough to get her help._

_Frank didn’t love her enough. He loves himself and the thrill of her unmedicated bullshit too much to get her help._

_Iggy says that his father taught him a lot of important things, even if he did it in a shitty way. A lot of things he probably would have learned an even harder way, growing up. His father taught him how to fight, what it’s like in prison, and, surprisingly, how to swim._

_My mom taught me a lot of things, too. She taught me how to cook and how to drive (even if I was too young) and she told me that it’s okay to be who I am._

_I have no doubt that Terry was a monster, but I’ve never found someone that understands loving an abusive parent. My siblings don’t love my mother. I’m the only one that loves my mother. You can be angry with someone, and avoid someone, but still love them. That’s a hard concept for a lot of people to grasp. Iggy seems to get it._

_I really feel like I belong here. As much as I can._

_I’m making friends at work, too. There’s Adam, who always takes time to ask about Mickey. And there’s Rich, one of the bartenders, who can play the guitar pretty well, but can’t sing to save his life. A lot of the regulars are very nice, too. I get invited to a lot of after parties, but I never go._

_It’s irrational, but I’m a little scared that if I go, maybe Mickey will be there, with someone else. And I’d go crazy. Batshit. Psycho. I’d choke his date out, probably. The opposite of just being cool._

_Every night, I come home, and he’s there, and I feel stupid for worrying so much. But how am I supposed to know when it will happen? When he’ll find someone else?_

_I haven’t tried to have sex, really. It’s not that I’m scared of having sex in itself, I just wonder if he really wants to be with me that way._

_I throw sex around so easily, that it’s hard to fathom doing it in the context of having feelings for someone. How fucked is that? I crave romance, but when any glimmer of it swings my way, I let it sail right fucking past me._

* * *

_June 23rd, ‘16_

_Mandy pointed out something this morning that made me kind of happy. We were talking and she commented on how clingy Mickey is lately._

_I hadn’t even really noticed, but he is. Sure, he’s been holding my hand more, but lately he’s been kissing me in public or putting an arm around me or running his fingers through my hair and it’s good. It’s nice. It makes it feel like he might care more than he acts like he does._

_Maybe I just expect too much. I’m trying to lower those expectations, and since I have, I’ve realized that Mickey is a generally perfect boyfriend. Though, I guess he isn’t my boyfriend. I don’t know any other word._

_He’s always happy to see me, he always wants to spend time with me, he isn’t afraid of people knowing what we are. He’s kind, and intelligent, and interesting, and hard-working._

_I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I want something, I think, but I don’t know what it is. I don’t know how to say it. I wouldn’t know how to say it even if I knew what it was._

_Maybe I just want him. Maybe I don’t know what that means. Maybe I want him in a different world, in a different time, in different circumstances. Maybe I want him here and now, too. I don’t know._

* * *

_June 31st, ‘16_

_Today marks one month since I met Mickey Milkovich, and I know this sounds like a knockoff of the first line in fucking Twilight, but I can say with the utmost confidence that I am both madly in love with him, and that I hate myself for it. But, fuck, how could I not be? I don’t know who it is I’m talking to, when I write, maybe some force out there made just to listen to the rambling of lovesick, fucked kids like me, but you have to believe me when I say he’s all I think about. Mickey is like everything good about my home, everything I love about Chicago, all wrapped up in a human being and given to the coast. It’s like God woke up one morning a good nineteen years ago and decided that day he would take some extra care to make someone really fucking special._

_I told myself after Jaq that maybe love doesn’t exist, maybe it’s all one big fraud, but, fuck, was I wrong. I wasn’t in love with Jaq. I don’t know if I even really liked Jaq. And maybe what I feel for Mickey isn’t actually real love, yet, but whatever it is, I’m certain it’s 100 times more intense than anything I’ve felt for anyone before. I may be stupidly infatuated, but I don’t fucking care. Because you know what? I’m exactly that age where you’re supposed to feel too much, too fast. Leave practical love to the thirty-somethings. I’m too reckless for it._

_Which brings me to Gabe. Fucking Gabe. I’m so good at pretending. Sometimes I want to tell Mickey everything, so badly, it hurts. It hurts._

_But I’m terrified. That maybe he’ll kick me out, that he’ll hate me and I’ll never see him again. That he’ll find it just as disgusting as I do, but it’s me he’ll find disgusting, not the situation._

_And maybe everything that happened with Jaq makes me freeze up, too. Mickey’s already broken somebody’s nose without thought. And I’m not scared that he’d hurt me, but I don’t know what he’d do to Gabe. I hate Gabe, but I’m sick of blood. There’s been too much blood. Ned bled, my mom bled, everyone bled in basic. I don’t want to see Gabe’s blood. I just want him to go away. The whole thing makes me want to vomit when I think about it._

_I smile, I go through the motions. Try not to be scared. Try not to be sick. Remind myself it’s only until he goes back to Boston. But this is fucked, isn’t it? It’s fucked. I don’t know what to do._

* * *

_July 2nd, ‘16_

_I say “I don’t know” a lot. I don’t know what it is that I don’t know. I think I just don't know anything. I wish I knew. In general._

* * *

_July 3rd, ‘16_

_I fucked up. Don’t I always?_

_I went to an after party and drank a lot and fucked someone for free who I can’t remember a single thing about and I don’t remember much but I know I came home and I know I told Mickey and I don’t think he even cared._

_I don’t know why I did it. I don’t know. Maybe it was for attention. Maybe I thought, if Mickey’s fucking around, maybe he should know how it feels._

_But I don’t know he’s been fucking around. He hasn’t told me he’s fucked around._

_I need to stop feeling so guilty. He wants it like this. He wants it casual. Easy. Uncomplicated._

_But I’m so fucking in love with him, that even when I’m with him, he’s all I can think about. I can’t focus, I can’t say what I want to say. I can’t do anything but stand there and feel lightheaded. Maybe I’m good at pretending I can function better than that, but that’s the truth._

_He’s my entire spectrum of emotion, right now._

_If I’m happy, it’s because of him. If I’m angry, it’s because of him. If all I can feel is the beat of my heart in my throat, it’s him, it’s all him, and I hate him for it._

* * *

Mickey snaps the journal shut and tosses it to the side like it’s scorching hot.

He has no idea what time it is.

He misses Ian so much he can’t breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember like three chapters ago when i said there were only 2 chapters left  
> lol  
> please leave comments, they really really help!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me every time i post: next chapter will be the last  
> me every time i write: lol but WHAT IF

Mickey finds Ian’s address two days after they come back from Boston.

It’s another four days before he sits down on the couch with a notepad in one hand, switching on the news for background noise and staring blankly at the paper in his lap.

_Dear Ian,_

He erases it immediately. Who is he, Maggie Smith?

_Ian,_

That’s better.

He stalls, then. Puts the pencil to the paper, but can’t produce any words.

_How have you been?_

Lame. He erases it.

_I heard all about Gabe. I kicked his ass. In theory._

It’s too forward. Erase.

_You really broke my fucking heart, man._

God, does he normally sound twelve fucking years old?

He stares at the scratchy tilt of his own handwriting before crumpling up the paper and tossing it to the side.

So much for that.

The sound of rain begins outside the window, in a slow crescendo.

He wonders what his mother would say about all of this. Something he doesn’t dare to do often.

His mother didn’t subscribe to the idea of “follow your heart”. She held the silent motto, “Take things when you can get them.”

But what did that earn her? Six unplanned kids, an incarcerated husband, and a string of shitty boyfriends?

It causes a physical gagging reaction for him to think it, but where would the world be if nobody followed their heart? What if single cell organisms had just thought, “Well, this is my life,” and stayed single cells? Maybe nothing would have ever evolved, and the earth would just be one big barren ball of nothing. Maybe natural selection is just one long string of things following their heart, he reasons. That thought makes the phrase easier to swallow.

It’s science, really. Instinct.

Or maybe he’s just full of shit.

He mutes the television, pulls out his phone, and dials his sister’s number.

One, two, three rings.

“What’s up?”

His sister’s voice is a relief. “Hey, Mands,” he sighs out. “How’s Boston?”

“Fancy. How’s Jersey?”

“Shitty.”

“‘Shocking.”

“What are ya up to?”

“Looking for a job that won’t totally suck. You?”

Mickey glances down at the crumpled paper resting, mockingly, a few feet away on the floor. “Just watchin’ the news.”

“Did you find the address?” Mandy asks without hesitation.

Mickey blinks, and huffs out a breath. “Yeah.”

“So why are you still in Jersey?”

His eyebrows draw together, and he busies himself with the nail of his thumb, to no beneficial illusion considering Mandy can’t even see him.

“Mick.”

“Hm?”

“Go to Chicago.”

He stares blankly at the silent weather report on the screen. Thunder rumbles outside as the words “Heavy Rain” roll across the bottom of the screen.

_No shit._

“Dumbass, what the hell are you gonna do if you don’t?” Mandy demands when she receives no response. “Keep working at Leo’s for another decade? Find some boring guy you only sort of like, get dumped again because everyone can tell you’re still in love with--”

“I’m not moving to Chicago,” Mickey cuts her off.

“Why not?”

_Why not?_

Because he has no fucking idea what he’d do, where he’d go. How he’d settle in. He’d have no plan, no backup if Ian isn’t there, or worse, if he is there but doesn’t want Mickey back.

“What are you scared of, Mickey?”

“I’m not scared, I’m just not gonna move halfway across the country to _maybe_ be with some guy that I dated for a grand total of three fuckin’ months, Mandy.”

That’s a lie. He is scared. He’s terrified. He’s scared of the thought of leaving, he’s scared of the thought of staying. He’s scared of the thought of Ian being gone, but even more scared of seeing him again. He’s most scared of the unknown.

“He was more than some guy and you know it, asshole.”

She’s right. It’s bullshit.

“I don’t fuckin’ know what I’d do in Chicago, Mandy.”

“Find a job, rent a shitty apartment. Fucking apply to college, I don’t know. You always play everything so _safe,_ Mick.”

He’s quiet for a beat. The wind whistles the slightest bit.

“I don’t even know if he’ll be there.”

“Yeah, he will. He sent me a postcard, like, two weeks ago.”

Mickey jolts upright. ‘“He fucking what?”

“Yeah, just, like, a generic one, of the city. Just to say he’s okay.”

“And you never told me?” Mickey presses.

“Never seemed like the right time.”

“Any time would’ve been fuckin’ peachy, Mandy.”

He can almost hear her sympathetic grimace. “Yeah,” she says. “Sorry about that.”

The thunder is cyclical.

“So does that change anything?” Mandy asks after a second.

He gazes out at a flash of lightning. It reminds him of something. He can’t place what it is.

“Hey, Mands, I have to get ready for work,” he lies, shutting the television off and folding Ian’s address back up. “Take care of yourself, alright?”

Mandy sighs, defeated. “Alright, Mick.”

* * *

 

The house is much quieter without Mandy. They all work a lot, eat separately, have different days off.

Iggy found a new friend in Chris, and, more often than not, is off doing _something_ with the guy.

Mickey lives in continuous denial that he’s jealous. That he misses his _own_ inexplicably charming, redheaded stripper, and that’s why he rolls his eyes so hard when he finds them laughing at fucking nothing.

It’s the beginning of October when Iggy delivers the news.

He appears, almost sheepishly, at the doorway of Mickey’s room, Chris in tow. Mickey pauses, and glances up from the magazine he’s reading to look between the two with minimal interest.

“What?” he finally prompts when all they do is stare at him.

Iggy clears his throat. “Hey, Mick.”

Mickey stares back, unimpressed. “ _What?_ ” he repeats, with more diction.

It seems to spark Chris into action, who shoulders up to Iggy and smiles diplomatically at Mickey.

Mickey’s gut twists with dread and curiosity over what the fuck is happening.

“We just have some news.”

“What, is he pregnant?” Mickey asks his brother

“We’re moving to Philly!” Chris interjects, throwing out a pair of jazz hands, like he expects fucking applause.

Mickey squints at the strange pair in an attempt to complete his fractured comprehension. “ _We?_ ”

“Yeah.” Iggy gestures with his thumb between himself and Chris. “We found a place in South Philly. We gotta get outta this city, man. We’ve been talkin’ about it for awhile.”

Mickey’s face scrunches with scrutiny, his gaze flitting between the two as he watches his brother fidget and the other force a smile.

“Wh--are you two fucking?” Mickey asks, the sudden realization intense and, frankly, horrifying.

Chris blinks, and the color seems to drain from Iggy’s face.

“We’re--”

“It’s complicated,” Chris offers quickly.

“Fuck you, it’s complicated,” Mickey scoffs out.

“Come on, you can’t be upset. _You’re_ gay,” Chris argues.

“ _I’m_ not gay,” Iggy enforces.

“It’s not the _gay_ thing,” Mickey insists, ignoring Iggy. “You look like an off-brand version of my ex!” He looks over at his brother. “Did you want to fuck Ian that whole time?”

“No!” Iggy denies. “And me and Chris aren’t fucking!”

“Yeah, we’ve only--” Chris begins to add, earning a hard glare from Iggy. He bites back whatever it is he’s going to say, and finishes weakly, “--hung out.”

Mickey stares at them, and tries to blink back the surge of hollowness in his chest.

So this is it. Everyone leaves. Everyone gets their better half. Even his shithead brother.

“You tell Colin yet?” he asks, straightening out the magazine and pretending to return his attention to it.

“No,” Iggy answers.

“Figured we’d tell you as a trial run,” Chris explains.

Mickey shrugs, not lifting his eyes from the words on the page in his hands. Briefly wonders why it is that his siblings repeatedly find him the best candidate in which to confide big news. “Well, I don’t give a fuck. Do what you want, man.”

“We’re movin’ in on Saturday,” Iggy says, after a second of silence. “We went half in on a used car. Gonna load up whatever we can fit and bug out.”

Mickey nods without a word.

“We’re really excited,” Chris continues. “It’ll be a fresh start. Iggy’s job transferred him, and I found a serving job at this fancy restaurant where I’ll get big tips. We think we’re gonna be happier.”

Mickey looks up, again, finds that his brother is no longer looking at him, and is, instead, gazing at the guy next to him with this sickeningly soft smile.

_Is that what I looked like? That’s fuckin’ nasty._

“Congrats, Opie,” Mickey mumbles, lowering his own gaze and flicking to the next page.

“Well, uh…” Iggy scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly, and straightens. “Thanks for bein’ cool, Mick.”

“Uh huh.”

He doesn’t look up again, but by the sounds of movement and the sudden quiet, he knows he’s alone again. He sets aside the magazine, to blink at the far wall, and then he leans over to his nightstand, lifting Ian’s journal and retrieving the paper with the Chicago address.

* * *

 

The fifth anniversary of his mother’s death is a lonely one. Iggy’s gone two days before. Mickey can’t help but wonder if his timing was intentional.

He sits on the couch, stares at the far wall, smokes. Doesn’t really stop himself from remembering what happened, like he normally does.

It was right there, he thinks. If you look close enough, you might be able to see the hole Colin patched up where the guy, Rick, threw a punch and missed.

She had caught him with another woman, he was drunk, just mirroring her rage.

Mickey was 14. Mandy was 12. Just about to turn 13.

He remembers sitting on the couch, while a fucking Nationwide commercial played on the television, paralyzed, hugging his sister to his chest to keep her from watching and screaming for his older brother.

By the time Colin pulled Rick off, shouting at Mickey to call the police, it was too late.

His mother was not immortalized peacefully. They couldn’t afford an open casket. Couldn’t afford a nice headstone. The neighbors certainly didn’t help.

He blamed himself, for a long time.

If he hadn’t been too afraid, he could have stopped it. If he hadn’t been too afraid, his mother would be alive.

He thinks that was the day his emotions shut off, a bit. Because when you witness something like that, you have two options: cry constantly, or reject feelings completely.

He thinks that’s the day he stopped being a kid, too. Gave up hobbies, gave up friends.

Survival. That’s what he was left with.

Terry died two months later.

He feels the anger, again, when he thinks about it. The anger that leads him to do dumb shit, like throw a punch without a thought and shut his mouth when there’s something that needs to be said. Open his mouth when things don’t need to be said.

It’s just a wall. Just a couch. Just a stupid commercial. Just a bad nightmare. That’s what he insists, most days.

His mother really used to love the beach.

That’s where he finds himself, forty minutes later, after the wall becomes too much to look at.

It’s foggy. He can’t see the horizon. The beach is abandoned, cold. It feels like standing on the edge of the earth, expecting there to be more. He stands in the midst of the fog and wishes he could reach out and grab a handful. It looks so solid. It’s bullshit that it’s not.

He thinks of Ian’s journal entry about the ocean, about fish people and some hidden Atlantis, as he stares down the short stripe of rocks and shells scattered down the beach in front of him, and he barks out a laugh in spite of himself.

Maybe humans don’t know that much about the ocean, Mickey thinks, because the ocean doesn’t want to be understood.

Maybe he should stop trying to understand it. Maybe he’s learned all he can from it.

It’s placid and deafening and terrifying, now. Hidden by the fog and impossible to measure.

His mother is gone. His father is gone. His siblings are gone.

Maybe he’s learned all he can.

* * *

 

It’s a quiet preparation. He does his research, finds prospective apartments. Reads help wanted ads.

Rehearses what he might say when he finally sees Ian again.

No matter how hard he tries, the right words won’t come. The whole fantasy is a silent feeling, one of forgiveness and relief and change, something words can’t surmount.

He’s not ready, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever really be ready. That’s how all big decisions are made, after all. Saying yes when your mind is stuck on ‘I don’t know.’

* * *

 

“Yo, I need to talk to you.”

He finally says it at the beginning of November, when the boardwalk’s thinned out and the Outlet’s shut down and the grass on the dunes has dried up.

Colin’s sitting at the kitchen table, light low, sipping a beer and shuffling through a stack of papers.

“You movin’ out, too?” Colin asks absently. A joke, maybe.

Mickey winces. His silence spurs Colin to look up, an interested look on his face.

He chews his lip, tries to remember the millions of ways he’s rehearsed this in his head.

_I’m doing something stupid._

_I hate this city._

_I need a change._

_I’m moving to fucking Chicago._

It all seems wrong.

“This is our lease renewal,” Colin says, holding up the papers, before Mickey can decide on an opening line. “Gotta decide whether to sign it or not.” He says it carefully, watching Mickey with a purposeful eye.

“We don’t own this house?” Mickey wonders. He literally had no idea. He’s lived here his whole life.

“No, we don’t own it. Landlord just doesn’t do shit. Keep up, Mick.”

“And you’re, uh--” Mickey swipes at the tip of his nose nervously. “Thinkin’ about...not signing it? The lease?”

“Well, you know, I can’t really…” He huffs out a sigh, and puts the papers back down. “I can’t afford it by myself.”

Mickey stares at him. Colin stares back easily.

“So, what?” Mickey cuts through the quiet. “What does that mean?”

Colin leans back in his chair, and shrugs. “I don’t know, Mick. Mandy’s gone. Ig’s gone. We barely talk. You’re almost twenty. Just think we wouldn’t be doin’ much harm if we got our own places, y’know?”

Mickey nods, a lightness behind his eyes. “I guess.”

Colin regards him with a knowing half-smile. “You gonna let me come visit you in Chicago?”

“You gonna let me come crash with you when it all turns to shit?” Mickey shoots back, half-joking.

“No,” Colin says with a huffed laugh. “So you better not fuck it up.”

* * *

 

He’s the last one to move out. They sell all the furniture they won’t need, bicker over the technology (Colin gets the television and the microwave, but Mickey gets the Xbox), and Colin leaves to follow Iggy and Chris to Philly at the end of November, leaving Mickey to finish packing on his own.

It’s crazy. It’s crazy and stupid and more reckless than anything he’s ever done in his life. More reckless than the tattoos, more reckless than the car theft, more reckless than the fist fights or the drugs. Because this is an ongoing recklessness, one that he’s sunk his fingers into and poured effort into, finding an apartment and looking for a job and researching schools. And it may look premeditated, one foot in front of the other with careful thought, but adrenaline pulses through him with every step, right through the moment that he zips his last suitcase shut and loads it into the back of Leo’s car.

“All set back there, kid?”

Mickey shoulders his backpack, and turns to look at his home. Brown and dreary and dilapidated as it is, it’s still his home. Still the extent of his world.

He made his first girl cry, here, he remembers with a grimace. Smoked his first cigarette. Learned how to ride a bike, and how to chug a beer, and how to not cry when that’s all there’s left to do.

He kicks a large piece of gravel, watching it bounce onto his lawn.  

Learned how to fall in love.

Or maybe he didn’t at all. He’s not sure.

He sucks in a breath, and exhales out the memories, leaving them to the city.

“Blow me, Jersey,” he offers as a farewell, to which Leo responds by laying on the horn, causing Mickey to stagger away in temporary fear.

“ _Leo!_ ” he shouts, rubbing at his ringing ear.

“You are taking too long!” the man answers. “You are going to miss your flight, dumbass.”

Mickey glares at him, but opens the passenger’s side and tosses his backpack in.

Leo pulls away from the curb without hesitation. In a few seconds, they’re pulling off his street for the last time. His throat tightens.

“How are you feeling, Michelangelo? Ready?”

Mickey smiles, a bit sadly, at the nickname. “Not really. Scared shitless.”

Leo nods. “Well, you come back to visit, yes? Bring your fidanzato. My house is open.”

“I will,” Mickey assures him, then adds, “If I _have_ a boyfriend.”

Leo glances over at him, eyebrow raised. “You are blind. He is blind. Everyone else, they can see. That is why we all pushed you to go find him.”

Mickey looks over at him in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Leo huffs out a knowing laugh. “You do not see how he looks at you. He does not see how you look at him. Neither of you see how you look at each other. But it is not fake, what you have. It is much easier to see from the outside.” Mickey casts him a skeptical glance, and Leo shrugs. “You are in love with each other. It is rarer than you think.”

Mickey scoffs, turning to look out the window. “I fuckin’ hate that phrase.”

“What, ‘in love’?”

Mickey nods. “Don’t mean anything.”

They roll to a stop at a redlight. “Of course it means something. Words mean something. That’s what makes them words and not sounds.”

Mickey shakes his head. “No, I mean, everyone throws it around so much that it don’t mean anything anymore.”

“Tale tristezza,” Leo mutters out. “Can you kill the teen angst? You are moving to a different state for this boy. You are in love with him. And he is in love with you. I figured by this point you would have admitted it to yourself.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Mickey protests.

“No, it is not. You really do think you are special, kid, but you are not. You work the same as the rest of us. We are all the same animal. You and me,” Leo gestures between them, “Ukranian, Italian, short, tall, young, old, gay, straight, we are the same. Noi siamo uno, kid. You have got an hour to make peace with that before you get on that plane.”

Mickey crosses his arms and directs his stare blindly out the window for the rest of the drive.

* * *

 

Mickey tries, the first day. When he lands in Chicago, he hails a cab and he opens his mouth to request he be taken to Ian’s house, but it catches in his throat and he swallows it down, spitting out his new apartment’s address, instead.

* * *

 

His landlord is curt, but helpful. The apartment is tiny and grimy and reminds him of home.

It’s perfect. It’s his.

He doesn’t have a mattress yet, so he lays down a blanket and his pillow and listens to the song of his street and shivers.

He falls asleep blaming himself for the blatant empty space next to him.

* * *

 

It’s only until he’s settled, he tells himself. Only until he’s got money coming in and food in his cupboards and something other than the floor to sleep on. It’s only until he’s settled.

But he finds a job, at a diner at the end of his block, and grocery day seems to implement itself onto Sundays, and his mattress rests comfortably between his two secondhand nightstands, and he still hasn’t lifted a finger to find Ian.

He makes shallow friends, at work, in his building. He fits in, well enough. He assimilates. People nod when they see him. He nods back.

His birthday comes and goes. His siblings call. He doesn’t tell anybody else. He knows they could never give him the present he wants.

He walks, in his free time. To explore the neighborhood. To catch his breath. Further every time.

It’s been a month living in Chicago when he hits South Homan, and goes rigid.

He knows that street. He’s read that name.

He must look like a nutjob, staring up at the street sign like this, but this is it. The street he’s seen in his fantasies, in his nightmares. This is it.

And he could easily turn down the street and find Ian. Right here, right now.

He tries to tell himself he doesn’t know which house it is.

He knows the number. He knows he knows the number.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, directing his mind toward the rapidly setting sun, and turns back towards his apartment.

* * *

 

Chicago is a grayscale. Sometimes he misses color. 

* * *

 

“What about you, Mickey? You have anybody?”

“Nah.”

“No girl to come home to?”

“No girl.”

* * *

 

“Any plans this weekend?”

“Nah.”

“Come out with us!”

“I’m good.”

* * *

 

 

“Hey Milkovich, can you work Christmas Eve? Can’t find nobody else.”

“Yeah.”

“No plans?”

“Nah.”

“Family too far away?”

He thinks of South Homan, for a second.

“Yeah. From the east coast.”

“Pretty far.”

“Yeah.” 

* * *

 

He works the late shift Christmas Eve. It’s shockingly busy.

The diner has one Christmas album, Frank Sinatra’s _Christmas,_ that has been playing on loop for a few days now. As everyone seems to huddle together in their booths, while _Silent Night_ plays for the 4th time that night, Mickey feels a pang of loneliness.

It snows, in the fade of the streetlights. Fairly hard.

When he rushes back out from the kitchen to check his section, about three quarters through his shift, he sees it. Sees him. Nearly doubles over.

He’s paler. Thinner. Tired. In winter clothes.

Mickey had never even stopped to ask what he’d look like in winter clothes.

The answer is beautiful. Of course it is. He makes mundane things beautiful.

There’s a delay, before it all comes flooding back.

Everything.

His sight, the part that takes light and attributes an entire rainbow to it, is restored. He hadn’t even noticed it was broken.

And he hasn’t thought it, before, exactly, but right now, he feels it, he knows it’s true, knows he’s fucked.

He’s truly in love with Ian Gallagher.

“Milkovich!”

His coworker shouts his last name when he slams into the back of him, coming out of the kitchen, nearly dropping a tray full of clean dishes.

Ian doesn’t notice. It’s then that Mickey realizes he’s laughing with some other guy. Wiry kid, with wild eyes and unseasonably tan skin.

“Milkovich, you alright?”

He turns, blinking, towards, a second coworker. Her eyebrows draw together in concern, and he suddenly remembers, _fuck_ , he’s got a job to do, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this, nothing was supposed to happen like this.

“Yeah, could you just--I can’t...take the table with the redhead,” Mickey explains to her slowly.

She glances at Ian’s table, and then back at Mickey. “What, Ian Gallagher’s table? And Jeff Garcia? You owe ‘em money or somethin’?”

Mickey hushes her frantically. “Jesus Christ, please, shout their full names twenty feet away from them, that’ll help.”

The woman, a thin smoker named Marta, clicks her tongue sympathetically. “Sorry, kiddo. Everyone else’s got a full section. You’re gonna have to take one for the team.”

“No, you don’t fuckin’ understand. He can’t see me,” Mickey insists.

Marta regards him skeptically. “I’ve known that kid from birth. If I had to pick a Gallagher to be the type to make a person like you shake in their boots, I’d’ve picked the oldest sister, not Ian. And Jeff’s dad _owns_ this joint, he ain’t a bad kid.”

Mickey gasps out in frustration. “I didn’t ask for their fuckin’ life stories, Marta, I asked you to take his fuckin’ order so I can work in peace.”

Marta draws back, gaze turning cold. “Well you can forget it, sweetheart. Grow some balls and do your job.”

Mickey is about to call after her, before he clamps his mouth shut and suppresses the scene he’s about to make.

“Fuck,” he mouths, glancing back over at Ian and his friend.

_I am such a pussy._

With that thought, he tightens his grip on his notepad, sucks in a breath, and heads towards Ian’s table. It feels like it takes eight years. Ian, looking perfect even in the diner’s shitty lighting, leans back, listening intently to whatever the other guy, Jeff, is saying.

They don’t look over when he arrives at the edge of their table, and Mickey catches the very end of Jeff’s statement.

“--gettin’ his ass traded for cigarettes, hopefully.”

Ian laughs a little at that.

_Just breathe, man._

“You ready?” he asks curtly, and Ian finally looks over, smirk fading slowly, replaced by the terrified recognition blooming on his face.

Ian looks at him like he’s a fucking poltergeist. Mickey imagines he wears a similar expression. Jeff glances between them both with intense confusion.

He tears his eyes away to look down at his notepad, with no real purpose.

“Our special’s some shitty turkey dish, but I saw the turkey, and I can’t confirm that it’s not dog food, so...wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Mickey?” Ian manages to stutter out.

“You know him?” Jeff asks.

“What are you doing here?” Ian exclaims. “What--what are you doing in Chicago?”

“Listen, man,” Mickey sighs out. “Can you please order somethin’ before my boss has my ass?”

And he knows it seems cold, because he’s had the time to know that Ian’s there, that it’s a possibility. He’s had the time to know where he, himself, is. To orient himself. And maybe he’s been miserable, maybe he’s basically been a walking corpse, but at least he’s had the control. Been denying himself on purpose. He knows it seems cold, but none of this feels real. This fluorescent terror, it seems like if he were to reach out to touch Ian, it would all melt away. Maybe his hand would pass right through Ian’s skin, to the center of the apparition. Maybe he only has minutes before the dream shifts and it’s lost to his psyche.

“Just two cups of coffee,” Jeff cuts into the odd silence.

Mickey nods, tucking his pencil behind his ear. “I can do that.”

He takes his time grabbing the coffee pot, stopping at his other three tables to check in, and sending a silent curse through his smile when they inform him they need nothing.

He returns to Ian’s table, trying to ignore the way Ian cuts off his whispering to Jeff mid-sentence and watches him like he’s come back from the dead.

Jeff jumps up, when Mickey finishes pouring the coffee, with a strange smile. “Hey, man, have a seat.”

Mickey stares at him like he’s absolutely fucking insane. Which he is, apparently. “Are you fuckin’ kidding?”

“Jeff--” Ian starts, but he’s cut off by Jeff’s insistent tone.

“Really, my dad’s the boss, I’ll do your job for a minute, it’s fine.”

Mickey stands, stuck, without a real excuse to say no, before he finally surrenders the coffee pot to Jeff and watches as the guy turns and hurries away to the server’s station.

_Fuck._

That’s the entirety of his internal dialogue as he turns, slowly, to face Ian again, who tears his eyes reluctantly away from Jeff to smile nervously at Mickey. The album restarts, and _Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas_ floats its way through the diner.

“So, uh,” Mickey flounders, reaching back to rub at his neck. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Ian answers, as if it’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.

Mickey hesitates for a moment before sliding mechanically into the booth across from Ian.

Their eyes meet, on the same level, and he ceases to think. It buzzes between his temples. The energy, between them. Raw magnetism. Born to repel or attract.

He feels like a recovered drug addict on the edge of a bender. He wants it all, right now. All or nothing.

Something about lunging across the table and kissing the shit out of Ian doesn’t really scream, “This is something you can do while still keeping your job!”

“What are you doing here?” Ian asks again, in a daze.

_You. You. This is all for you._

“Uh, needed a fresh start. And everyone left,” Mickey explains. “Mandy moved to Boston, Iggy found someone and moved to Philly, and then Colin did, too.”

Ian stiffens. “Boston?”

“Yeah, Boston.” Mickey searches Ian’s face as it contorts into one of masked fear. He looks like the scared, hungry kid, again, that Mickey met back in the Spring, and Mickey’s heart aches as he tries not to think about what Ian went through, in complete silence. “Hey,” Mickey prompts softly after a moment, catching Ian’s eye. “I know, alright? I took care of him.”

A panicked look overtakes Ian. “You didn’t--”

“I didn’t hurt him,” Mickey assures him before he can finish the thought, and he relaxes the slightest bit.

Ian glances down at the table, seems to consider saying something, before asking, “So how’ve you been settling in? You like it here?”

Mickey shrugs, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat. “I’m doin’ alright. Cold as shit here, though.”

“Summers are worse,” Ian warns, with the hint of a smile. “You got your own place?”

Mickey nods. “‘Bout a block down, at 48th and Pulaski.”

“How long you been here?” Ian asks, his expression suggesting he’s preparing himself to be hurt by the answer.

“Little over a month. Really not too long.”

Ian smiles tightly, gripping his mug and looking out into the night’s static.

“I was gonna come and tell you,” Mickey continues, in a quiet panic induced by that wounded, unsurprised demeanor. “I just…”

“I had _just_ accepted that I was never going to hear from you again,” Ian interrupts, pinning Mickey with an unsteady stare. “Just got my fuckin’ life back on track, went back to school, went on--” He bites his sentence off, jaw clenching, eyes guarded but frightened.

“Ian--”

“And now you just show up, in my local diner, workin’ here like you’ve lived here your whole fuckin’ life, with no warning? Not even a fuckin’...restraining order?”

The words are like a stab to the gut, because they’re true.

This isn’t Mickey’s city, yet. This is Ian’s city. Ian’s neighborhood. Ian’s childhood. Fully, completely. Ian owns everything in it.

Ian heaves a sigh at Mickey’s silence. “Listen, take care of yourself, Mick, alright?”

And it sounds final, and stable, and dry, and no, this is not the ending he’s written in his mind, he hasn’t said enough, he hasn’t said the right things, and now Ian is shifting to stand and--

“No-- I’m fuckin’ sorry, okay?” Mickey blurts desperately, and Ian freezes, mouth parted in protest, eyes fixing on Mickey, petrifying him. “I’m just--scared,” he chokes out, to finish.

“Marta wants you to get back to work,” Jeff cuts in, approaching their table, oblivious.

_Fuck._

Before he can think, a good thing for once, he pulls the pencil from behind his ear and scribbles his address on his notepad, tearing it away and pushing it towards Ian. “Listen, just...come find me if you wanna catch up, or somethin’. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Ian stares down at the paper blankly, and Mickey pushes himself back out of the booth, nodding to Jeff. “Thanks, man.”

“Merry Christmas,” Jeff calls as Mickey retreats back towards the kitchen.

Mickey casts a civil wave over his shoulder in response, pushes through the door to the back, and leans heavily on the counter, trying desperately to find his breath in the middle of the bustle.

When he returns, delivering a pair of plates to a frazzled couple in the middle of his section, he turns to find Ian and his friend have left, coffee barely touched, tip splayed messily near the salt shaker.

His only comfort is that his address, as far as he can tell, is still in Ian’s possession.

* * *

 

His shift ends at 10:30.

Mickey knows Chicago is considerably more north than the Jersey shore, but the cold that greets him when he steps out of the diner still takes his breath away.

It’s not a bad feeling. Snow gradually dusts down, and Mickey’s freezing to the bone, pulling his meager coat tighter around him, but the cold shakes him, wakes him up. The cold makes him feel _real_ as he’s passed by thinning groups of people. The snow is real, the city is real, and somewhere, right now, Ian is real. Tonight was proof of that.

He shakes the thought out of his mind, only to feel it push its way back in every few steps.

It seems to take ages to reach his building, despite it being a simple five minute walk down the street. The snow slows him down. His fear slows him down.

A group of carolers pass by him, just finishing off _Hark The Herald Angels Sing,_ an odd, wholesome contrast to his worn down neighborhood.

He’s alone on Christmas Eve, he remembers. No Christmas tree, no presents to give, no party to go to. He’s alone.

He was okay with that, at one point. Though, in Azurra, he was never really alone. He had his siblings. He had Leo.

Here, it’s him. It’s all him. Without Ian, it’s really, only him.

Maybe he half-hopes to see Ian’s slouched figure leaning against the entrance to his building. Nothing greets him but a pause in the wind and the soft knock his shoes make as he shakes the snow off.

When he opens his apartment, he pulls of his coat and kicks off his shoes and hangs up his scarf, and he glances around at the bleak, shadowed room.

He could’ve done something. Something for Christmas. Could’ve decorated a tree. Could’ve bought a few presents, for his siblings. Could’ve said yes to the party invitations from his neighbors and coworkers.

But time hasn’t been moving, in his mind. He thinks maybe he didn’t even realize it wasn’t November anymore.

It’s 11:00, as he’s half-engulfed in the novel he’s reading (something he’s been doing a lot lately, since he can’t afford a television yet), when he thinks he hears a knock.

It’s just the wind, he thinks. Tree branch on a window. Here and gone.

Except, it comes again. And again. Until he realizes it isn’t coming from his window, but from his door.

“What the fuck?” he mutters in irritation, snapping his book shut and putting it aside.

The knock comes again, as he’s standing up and heading towards the door.

“Alright, _alright_ ,” he calls out as his hand meets the doorknob. “Jesus, just hold on.”

He pulls the door open, fully prepared to deliver a beating to whatever coked up asshole is beating on his door this late at night, but stops, mouth half-open, when he sees Ian, looking out of focus, but fiery with purpose.

“Ian?” Mickey practically squeaks out. “The fuck are you doin’ here?”

“Why are you here?” Ian demands, straightening to his full height, maybe to remind the world he isn’t to be fucked with.

Mickey glances over his shoulder into his dim apartment. “I mean, I pay rent…”

“No, you know what I mean. Why are you here, now, after fucking _months_ of radio silence?” Ian takes a step closer to the threshold. Mickey doesn’t budge. Ian looks him in the eye, rock solid, his only tell the way his gaze shifts every few seconds before snapping back. “Why?”

Mickey stares right back, steady. “Why the hell do you think?” he answers, softly, but shamelessly. There’s only one answer. They both know it.

An entire array of emotions flashes across Ian’s face, a mixture of anger and disbelief and hopelessness, but Mickey doesn’t look away. Won’t look away, again.

Ian's gaze flicks briefly up and down Mickey's body, a warning sign, before he closes the distance, finally, crashing their lips together, and the past few months, the distance, the lies, the bullshit, it’s all incinerated in the way Mickey tugs him roughly inside, breath and hands desperate in their relapse. No time to waste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few things  
> 1\. hello i'm so happy to be writing ian again  
> 2\. ik the gallagher house is supposed to be on north wallace but north wallace is on the north side and it bugs me and south homan is the street the actual house is on and is actually on the south side  
> 3\. sorry this is a little bit abrupt at the end originally i had written their reunion where it was much more planned on mickey's part and more benign and easily resolved but it just didn't seem to flow with the characters i've written so i promise next chapter is all about them making up  
> 4\. leave comments!


	20. Chapter 20

It’s not the reunion Mickey imagined. It’s not smiles and tears and questions of forever. 

It’s better. It’s searing and angry and different. Like they’ve both grown up, a little bit, in the past few months. Become their own people. Become real.

There’s nowhere to hide, here, in this city. There’s no horizon. No end to the tunnel. No shore in the distance. They’re swimming in something endless, now.

And back, before, Mickey was too deeply afraid of tomorrow to leave a bruise on today. But he’s suffered through tomorrow, already, and here he is, at the dawn of the next day, in the middle of the resurrection, gasping for air he hasn’t tasted since August, and  _ fuck  _ if he’s not going to make this moment fully his.

They don’t take their time, don’t break apart except to discard clothes, stumbling back through Mickey’s apartment blindly. He thinks he hears something knock over, but he can’t find it in himself to find out what it is when he’s got Ian’s hand running through his hair and frantically pulling at his belt and shoving him onto his bed.

There’s no words between them, as Ian pins Mickey’s wrists to the mattress, only teeth and heat and thick disbelief.

Mickey’s in love with him.

It’s the only thing on his mind when Ian finally pushes inside him, and Mickey gasps against the stretch, suddenly remembering how fucking much he’s missed this,  _ God  _ he’s missed this, how the fuck did he live without this?

Ian grips his hips, hard enough that Mickey can already picture the red marks it will leave, and he doesn’t go gently, doesn’t give much time to breath, doesn’t take much time to breathe, and Mickey pushes back against him desperately, any moans lost to each other’s lips.

And it’s more than a relapse. More than a fix. More than a bender. It’s a death wish. An overdose. A fatality. No one’s supposed to feel this good, this ethereal and relieved and blatantly alive, Mickey thinks, and live to tell about it.

Ian bites down on Mickey’s lip, a reminder that this isn’t a dream, because dreams don’t ache, dreams aren’t so crudely bittersweet, so hyperfocused.

And Mickey has no idea what this all means to Ian, but to Mickey, it’s the declaration that he’ll chase this high until it kills him.

“ _ Fuck, _ ” he gasps into Ian’s mouth when Ian slams against his prostate.

It’s unrelenting, then, burst after burst of intensity and Mickey reaches up to card his fingers through Ian’s hair when the other pulls back slightly, too lost in the moment to keep up the rhythm of their lips.

And Ian’s gorgeous. Even approaching the edge, even through the fog of sex, he’s gorgeous. 

Ian’s his, he thinks. From here on out, Ian’s his.

That possessive thought, the bliss of erased trepidation, sends him tumbling into orgasm, and he tosses his head back, grinding back against Ian’s thrusts shamelessly, to try to keep this feeling in place for as long as he can before it’s slipping through his fingertips again. And then Ian’s kissing him again, bruisingly but reverently, a sign that he’s fallen off the edge, too. 

They fall away from each other, just slightly, still silent, and Mickey lies on his back, staring at the faded ceiling, trying to find some solid ground.

“I’m still mad at you,” Ian mumbles into the quiet, after a minute, and Mickey laughs, almost giddy.

He turns onto his side and hooks his thumb under Ian’s chin, turning his head to kiss him softly, sweetly, in an apology. “Missed you,” he breathes, when he pulls back a hair, foreheads still resting together. “So fuckin’ much.”

The ghost of a smile on Ian’s lips makes Mickey’s heart skip a beat. He rests his hand on Ian’s cheek, stroking it lightly with his thumb, in slight wonder.

Ian kisses him again, shortly, turning on his side to wrap one arm around Mickey’s waist, pulling him closer. Ian seems to have something to say, on their next breath, his mouth remaining obstinately shut while his eyes simmer with thought.

“What?” Mickey prompts softly. He thinks of Ian’s journal, his frustration with his own inability to speak, and he thinks maybe it’s not that Ian can’t speak, but that nobody’s ever cared enough to listen.

His theory is supported when Ian inhales sharply, eyebrows pulling together in caution. “You made me feel somethin’ again,” Ian whispers.

“Yeah?”

He doesn’t quite know what it means, for Ian, but he knows he shares the sentiment.

“I went on meds,” Ian continues, just as quietly, so quietly, almost silent. Mickey keeps his mouth shut, for a second. “For the bipolar. They make me feel, like...dead, inside.”

Mickey nods, hand ghosting to rest in Ian’s hair. It’s a bit longer now, Mickey notices, on the sides, on the top. 

“I crashed real bad when I got back, Mick,” Ian confesses shakily. “It was...it was fuckin’ terrifying. I thought I was gonna--” Ian’s breath hitches, eyes shining, and Mickey kisses him again, once he knows Ian’s given up on the sentence. A reassurance.

“You’re tough as hell, though,” Mickey says, bumping his nose against Ian’s. 

Ian smiles at that. Really smiles. “You think?”

“Like fuckin’...superman.”

Ian’s smile shrinks a bit, but remains. He rolls back onto his back, and stares up at the ceiling. “‘Cept my kryptonite’s my own fuckin’ brain.” 

Mickey places an absent kiss to the side of his head. “Tough as hell,” he repeats in a mumble against Ian’s hair. 

It must be late, now, judging by the hush outside his window. His eyes flutter shut in his glowing contentment.

“I’m sorry,” Ian expires out, shifting his hand to rest on Mickey’s forearm, slung across Ian’s chest, hand still tangled in Ian’s hair.

“Hm?”

“For lyin’, I guess. All the time.”

Mickey presses a kiss to his ear. “Past’s the past.”

The corner of Ian’s mouth twitches into a tiny smile, and he sighs. “Shit. It’s still Christmas Eve.”

Mickey breathes out a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”

Ian sits up, ignoring Mickey’s wordless noise of protest. “‘M supposed to be the elf to Fiona’s Santa tonight.”

Mickey watches, truly appreciating the definition of the word  _ smitten _ , as Ian stands and collects his clothes, pulling on his jeans first and tugging his shirt over his head.

“That reminds me,” Ian says, turning back to look at Mickey. “Not even a fuckin’ wreath on your door? I expected better.”

Mickey can’t help but grin. “It was the bed or a tree, man. The hell would you have picked?”

“The tree,” Ian says, like it’s the dumbest question he’s ever heard.

Mickey chuckles, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. “Not all of us have the dedication that you have.”

Ian hesitates, looking down at the floor and swallowing. “So, uh, no plans tomorrow?”

Mickey shrugs, running a hand through his hair, which he’s certain is a fucking mess. “Nah. Figured I’d just...do whatever.”

“Well, we’re havin’ a big dinner tomorrow,” Ian says, retrieving his coat from where he discarded it on the couch. “My family, and our neighbors. I’d, uh…” he clears his throat. “You can come, if you want.”

“I don’t know, man,” Mickey says, after a suspended moment of thought, pushing up out of the bed to pull on his boxers. “I don’t wanna fuckin’ impose.” 

Ian smiles, and steps closer to Mickey, grabbing his waist and leaning down to press a light kiss to his lips. “It’s for family,” Ian counters softly. “You’re family.”

Mickey leans up to meet Ian in a responding kiss. Their eyes linger, and Mickey can feel himself caving before he’s even really argued. “Alright, man, what time should I be there?” he sighs, and Ian grins, kissing him again.

Mickey has to stop himself from pulling Ian back into bed and detaining him until he agrees to stay through the night.

“Any time after two,” Ian replies, accompanied with another, smiling kiss. “Bring food. I know you can cook.”

Mickey can’t help but laugh into it when Ian kisses him one more time, pure happiness bubbling in his chest. “Alright,  _ alright _ , Red, go, before your sister has a fuckin’ heart attack.”

“Alright,” Ian says, stepping away and zipping up his coat. They walk to his door, Mickey trailing behind, already missing him. Ian opens the door, turning in the doorway to smile at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Mickey assures him, probably mirroring his self-satisfied grin. 

“Night.” Ian lifts a hand in a half-wave, and Mickey nods.

“Night.” 

Ian spares him one last glance over his shoulder before he’s heading back down the hall, towards the stairs. Mickey watches, entranced with partial disbelief, until Ian disappears down the stairwell.

* * *

 

“You seem weirdly happy, Mick,” Mandy observes, at exactly nine o’clock in the morning, on Christmas day.

They’re in a Christmas group call, his siblings and him and Chris (because, as far as Mickey can tell, every fucking phone call Iggy has also involves Chris), and Mickey has them on speaker phone as he tries to remember the ingredients to his mother’s pampushky.

“It sounds like he finally got laid again,” Iggy’s voice crackles through.

“Are you humming  _ White Christmas? _ ” Colin asks.

Mickey tries his absolute hardest to ignore his siblings and hold on to the first good mood he’s been in for four months. 

A monstrous noise startles him, and it takes him a fair moment to figure out that it was, in fact, the sound of Mandy gasping obnoxiously.

“ _ You got back together with Ian!”  _ she practically yells into the phone.

He pauses his scribbling, halfway through writing ‘honey’ and braces himself for the coming onslaught.

“So you did get laid again,” Iggy repeats.

“Is she right?” Chris asks. “Did you finally tell him you love him?”

“He really forgave you that fast for being a pussy and not talking to him?” Colin wonders.

“Of course he did, they’re in love,” Chris says.

“We’re not back together,” Mickey cuts in firmly, after they’ve each said their own intrusive piece. 

“Bullshit,” Mandy says.

Mickey hesitates, reluctant to humor his siblings in any way. His cautiously excited side, however, quickly wins out. 

“We mighta...talked again,” he says, internally reasoning that it isn’t really a lie, and resuming his attempts to construct a grocery list. “Last night.”

“Are you going to see him again?” Chris asks over the cacophony of whistles and mocking swoons his siblings erupt into.

“I don’t fuckin’ know…” He glances down at his cluttered recipe. “His family’s havin’ this dinner today, and I said I’d come.”

“So you’re meeting his family,” Colin proclaims.

“If I go.” 

_ If I go. _

He’s going. He knows he’s going. However, he is, unmistakably, the king of utter bullshit, and must fulfill his title. 

“Why the hell wouldn’t you go?” Iggy asks. 

Colin jumps on it. “Because--”

“Because I’m a pussy, I know, Colin, fuckin’ thank you,” Mickey interrupts.

“He’s become self-aware,” Mandy stage whispers.

“Shut the fuck up.”

There’s some sort of shuffling on Iggy’s line. “So how sore is your ass--”

“Can we  _ please _ talk about somethin’ else?” Mickey interrupts Iggy.

“Yeah. How sore is  _ Chris’s _ ass, Ig?” Colin chides.

“Why do you assume I’m the bottom?” Chris protests. The question is greeted by a moment of silence, before the siblings erupt into laughter. 

“If you’re a top,” Mandy says through her chuckling, “I’m the Queen of fuckin’ England.”

“That is a harmful perpetuation of stereotypes and I’m surprised that you find it funny, Mickey, as a fellow gay man,” Chris says.

“As a fellow gay man, I’m the one person here  _ allowed  _ to find it funny,” Mickey argues, setting down his pencil. “Hey, Mandy, d’ya remember what all went into Ma’s pampushky?”

“I have the recipe,” Colin answers, before Mandy can say anything. “The hell are you makin’ pampushky for?” 

“Christmas,” Mickey answers simply.

“You don’t have a festive fuckin’ bone in your body,” Iggy says. “Last year I tried to get you to bake cookies with me and you broke our wooden spoon over my head.”

“Hey, I was very drunk,” Mickey reasons. "That's my idea of festive."

“He’s going to that dinner,” Mandy explains. “He just doesn’t want to admit it to us.” 

He rolls his eyes at his family’s resulting, collective ‘ah’ of comprehension, but says nothing.

“And you’re making your mother’s recipe for Ian, because he’s your family,” Chris deduces with a sigh. “Why can’t I find someone that romantic?”

“Wrong, Juliet,” Mickey answers. “He told me to bring food. Pampushky’s the only shit I know how to make.”

“So are you gonna have the wedding in Chicago or are you gonna come back to Jersey?” Mandy asks suddenly. He can almost hear her shit eating grin. He wonders if she can hear his responding glare of death.

“You could get married on the beach, in the town you met!” Chris exclaims.

“Jesus fuck, we’re not getting married. Can you all get off it?” Mickey snaps.

“Testy,” Colin mutters.

“Did you hear Gabe was suspended?” Mandy asks, only slightly changing the subject.

“Yeah?” Mickey picks the pencil back up, completes the word ‘honey’, and starts on the word ‘lemons’.

“Yeah. Not totally fired, yet, but shit’s gonna follow him.”

“How’s your boyfriend feelin’ about it?” Mickey asks.

Mandy’s quiet for a second, a stretch in which she might have shrugged. “He thinks it’s shitty, but he’s not really that involved with his family. He says he only spends time with them over the summer, in Azurra. No one knows it was you he beat the shit out of, though.”

“How is your boyfriend, Mands?” Colin interjects. 

“He’s fine. We’re not really together, right now, though.”

“You broke up?” Chris inquires.

“Not really. I don’t know, it’s just not serious. I’m still open to dating other guys, y’know?”

Mickey doesn’t know. In fact, he has experienced distinctly the opposite perspective in exactly the same situation. 

He glances at the time. 9:20. He figures, if he wants to get there at a decent time, he should leave for the grocery store soon.

“Hey, guys, I gotta go,” he announces. “Send me that recipe, Colin.”

“Will do, kid.”

“Make us proud tonight, Mick,” Iggy requests.

“Merry Christmas, asshole,” Mandy says in farewell.

“Yeah, alright. Merry Christmas, bitch.”

* * *

 

He realizes he doesn’t have any sort of present for Ian during his walk to the grocery store, which throws him into a slight panic, a feeling that he has never experienced regarding Christmas shopping. He passes a stationary shop (an establishment that he never expected to enter) and inspiration hits him.

* * *

 

He gets dressed while the pampushky is in the oven, not really sure what the fuck the correct style for  _ Christmas dinner with the ex’s family _ would be. It’s times like this when he really misses his sister.

He settles on a dark button down tucked into his least shitty pair of jeans, and he spends the remaining amount of the baking time showering and agonizing over his hair. By the time the timer beeps, he’s dressed and ready.

When he sets out for South Homan, container of pampushky under one arm and Ian’s present under the other, the snow is a milky gray, thick with the prospect of more snow (as if they fucking need more snow). 

He finally reaches the address, a worn, blue two-story house in a neighborhood uncannily resembling his own back home in Jersey, at around 4:00. He hesitates at the gate, his heart thudding very suddenly in his chest, heavy enough to weigh down his steps.

_ Take a breath, Milkovich. _

He thinks about how unreal this is, that he’s here, worrying over a fucking dinner with the family, like a normal person in a normal relationship. 

_ Normal person. You can do that. Normal person. _

He considers jumping ship with every step towards the door. That seems fairly normal.

He can hear laughter, now, and faint music. He swallows down the fluttering in his stomach and knocks on the door, probably too hard, and a pretty brunette woman opens it a second later, finishing off laughing at something that somebody inside said before turning to look at Mickey, jolly expression melting into one of guarded confusion.

“Jesus,” she sighs out in slight incredulity. “Today, of all days? Christmas? You’re gonna get on my ass today?”

Mickey stares at her, perplexed, and briefly wonders if he got the wrong address. “Wh--”

“If you’re lookin’ for Frank, we haven’t seen him in weeks,” she interrupts her, like it’s routine. “Try the usual spots, because he’s not here.” She begins to shut the door, before a familiar voice stops her.

“Whoa, Fiona!”

The woman, Fiona, looks over her shoulder in surprise, before the door widens to present Ian, practically glowing with what Mickey refuses to call  _ The Christmas Spirit. _

Maybe he can feel his own expression brighten, too. 

“Hey, Mick!” Ian’s eyes sparkle with the greeting, and Mickey’s smile widens.

“Hey, Red,” he replies. It’s crazy, Mickey thinks, how, when Ian is around, he’s still completely incapable of looking anywhere else in the fucking room.

“Uh, Fiona, this is my date,” Ian explains to his sister. “Not...Frank’s drug dealer.”

Fiona stares at Ian, processing what he’s said, before realization seizes her face. “Oh--oh, my god.” She turns back to Mickey with an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry. It’s just--Ian told me he had someone coming, I just didn’t realize--I mean, you don’t look--”

“It’s fine,” Mickey cuts in, with a tight smile. 

“Ah, Fi, this is Mickey,” Ian redirects, leaning an arm against the door. “Mickey, my sister, Fiona.”

“Hey,” Mickey says with a nod.

Fiona smiles, and Mickey can still see the note of slight skepticism in her eyes, but he tries to ignore it in favor of focusing on Ian’s general existence.

He looks absurdly snug, in a gray sweater, a stark contrast to his hair, and worn jeans. 

Mickey gets another wave of lightheadedness, a repeated symptom in the past 24 hours, in which all he can think is:  _ I am in love with Ian Gallagher. _

“Well, Mickey, come in!” Fiona offers, stepping aside and gesturing inside. Mickey accepts the invitation, glancing around as he steps through the door.

It’s a bright home; well lived-in, but bright, not dim, not like his home back in Jersey. A small Christmas tree sits in front of a large window to his right, as he walks further in, and a slew of people are scattered across the lower level, including a few kids, none of whom give enough of a shit to turn to look at him.

Ian joins him inside, with a winning smile. “You bring food?”

“That’s all you’re after, huh?” Mickey jokes, with a grin. He lifts the plastic container in his hand, before offering it to Ian. 

Ian pops open the corner, peeking inside, and raises an eyebrow at Mickey. “Doughnuts?”

Mickey scoffs. “It’s pampushky, you ignorant Irish asshole.”

“So Ukrainians eat doughnuts on Christmas. Noted.”

“ _ Pampushky _ ,” Mickey corrects. “It’s my mom’s recipe. And it cost me, like, fifty dollars and a lot of fuckin’ time to make one batch, so you’ll eat doughnuts on Christmas and fuckin’ like it.”

Ian laughs, smile blissfully fond. “I’ll go put it with everything else.”

Mickey watches, helplessly, as Ian leaves him to put the food in the kitchen. 

“Hi,” a rather small, but confident voice greets, and Mickey looks over at the source, a redheaded girl around the age of twelve or thirteen. “I’m Debbie.”

Mickey nods, shoving his unoccupied hand into his back pocket. “Mickey.”

“Are you Ian’s boyfriend?” she asks, and Mickey glances over at Ian, again, who’s been stopped by a ginormous bearded guy for a conversation.

_ Shit. _

“I don’t know,” Mickey answers honestly, turning back to the kid.

“How can you not know?” Debbie protests. “You either are or you aren’t.”

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah, it’s just kinda complicated between your brother and I.”

“Do you like him?” she inquires.

Mickey turns to look at her dubiously. “‘Course I like him.”

“Do you  _ like  _ like him?”

He laughs a bit at that.

_ I cannot believe I’m having this conversation with a fucking child. _

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“So you  _ want  _ to be his boyfriend.”

Mickey shrugs again. “I guess I do, yeah.”

“That doesn’t sound complicated to me, at all,” Debbie concludes. 

Mickey opens his mouth to protest that it  _ is  _ complicated, of course it’s fucking complicated, they can’t just be  _ together  _ again after everything, they can’t just go back to how they were with all the shit they have to work out, but Ian returns, then, with a beer and a big smile, handing Mickey the former, which he accepts gratefully.

“Goin’ easy on him, Debs?” Ian asks, slinging an arm around his little sister as she rolls her eyes. 

“Easy enough,” Debbie answers seriously. Mickey scoffs at that, taking a sip of his beer and wishing desperately that he could feel comfortable enough again to just reach over and hold Ian’s hand, just to feel less like he’s about to fucking pass out. 

A guy with curly, dirty blonde hair approaches them and claps Ian on the back, followed by a thin, well-dressed, ambiguously Asian girl with glasses. “Frank dodge payin’ for some uppers?”

Ian casts his gaze heavenward, smile slipping a bit. “This is Mickey. My  _ date _ , Lip,” Ian corrects through gritted teeth. Lip squints at his brother, and then at Mickey.

“Oh, shit,” he laughs suddenly, gesturing towards Mickey with his beer. “That’s the kid you met in Jersey, isn’t it? The one you--”

“Lip,” Ian cuts him off. “Jesus. Shut up.”

“Aren’t you?” Lip asks Mickey, ignoring his brother.

“Uh, yeah,” Mickey answers, grip tightening on his beer. “That’s me.”

“Pretty long fuckin’ way from home,” Lip observes, wrapping his free arm around the girl beside him. 

“Did you come all the way here for Ian?” the redheaded girl asks excitedly. She glances at her brother with a dreamy look in her eye. “That’s so romantic.”

Ian flashes a small smile that suggests he might agree. Mickey would attempt to protest if it weren’t completely, disgustingly true. 

A little black kid sprints over unsteadily, then, slamming into Ian’s legs and latching on with a huge smile. Ian grins in response, and leans down to heave the kid up. “And this is our little brother, Liam.” Ian takes a breath, before he seems to anticipate the question on the tip of Mickey's tongue. “Yes, he is black, and yes, we are related to him by blood.” He squints. “Except, I’m only half related to him. But everyone else is fully related to him. It’s really--You know what? It doesn’t matter.” 

Mickey takes a sip of beer to mask the smile Ian’s rambling has caused. 

“And then Carl’s...somewhere, I don’t fuckin’ know,” Ian finishes. Fiona joins them to squeeze Liam’s cheeks, and she pauses at Ian’s statement, a look of horror on her face

“You don’t know where--Ian, I told you to watch--” Fiona cuts herself off with an irritated sigh, walking to the foot of the steps. “God only knows what-- _ Carl!” _ she yells up the stairs, assumedly a common method of communication in the Gallagher house. 

A muffled yell sounds in response.

“Oh, thank God,” she murmurs, then raises her voice again to call, “Get down here, it’s almost dinner!”

“We got him a BB gun for Christmas,” Ian states, as if that explains it all.

Obnoxious footsteps proceed Carl’s descension of the stairs, and when he appears and sees Mickey, his face scrunches into one of confusion. 

“Are you guys buying drugs?” he asks in a distinctly pubescent voice, attracting the attention of the remaining three people in the room.

“Why the fuck do you all think I’m a drug dealer?” Mickey asks, completely done with being polite. 

“Because you look like a drug dealer,” Carl answers frankly. 

“ _ Carl _ ,” Debbie scolds. “That’s rude.”

“What? He does,” Carl says

Mickey throws Ian a questioning look.

Ian’s mouth opens and closes, as if he’s caught on the spot, until he just shrugs, apparently giving up denying his brother’s observation. “It’s part of your charm,” he settles on. 

Mickey can’t help but snort at that.

It’s a blur, after that. He’s briefly introduced to everyone else (the Gallaghers’ neighbors and their kids, Lip’s girlfriend Amanda, and some less than memorable guy that Fiona is dating), and they sit down around the table to a small ham and a spread of side dishes. 

The Gallaghers certainly never take a breath. Someone, if not multiple people at once, is always talking. Lip talks about college, Fiona stops every few seconds to scold Carl about something, Debbie talks about her boyfriend. 

Everyone talks, Mickey notices, but Ian. Besides the occasional comment regarding someone else’s topic of speech, Ian keeps to himself, and his family makes no effort to draw him in.

Maybe it’s not always like this, but from what Mickey can see, it’s bullshit.

“So, Mickey,” Fiona’s boyfriend (was it Mike?) begins. “What do you do?”

“Wait tables,” Mickey responds over the rim of his beer. 

“Do you and Ian go to school together?” Mike asks.

Mickey scoffs out a laugh, glancing over at Ian, before realizing Mike isn’t kidding. He sets his beer down as his smile shrinks. “No, I, uh--haven’t been in a high school for three years.”

“Did you drop out?” Carl asks. His expression suggests he’s looking for the validation needed to leave school early, himself.

“No, I didn’t drop out,” Mickey says pointedly.

“Mick graduated a year early,” Ian boasts, taking a bite of mashed potatoes, and Mickey elbows him.

“Is that right?” Fiona muses, seemingly impressed. The family appears to stop to look at him with interest, and he pauses his quest to scoop multiple peas onto his fork without using his fingers like a fucking heathen.

“Uh, yeah,” he confirms, glancing around the table nervously. “It wasn’t anything  _ I  _ did, though. My mom just couldn’t stand to have me in the fuckin’ house another year, so she got me tested to see if I was smart enough that I could start early. And, uh,” he lifts his beer in a cheer to wasted potential. “I guess I was.”

“I hear that’s socially detrimental,” Amanda comments snidely, and Lip barks out a laugh.

“Yeah, it’s a good thing I was a prodigy in not giving a fuck,” Mickey quips back, trying not to break into a self-satisfied grin when Ian laughs breathily and knocks Mickey’s foot with his own.

“Thinking about college?” Mike asks, once it’s clear the exchange has ended.

Mickey shrugs, not looking up from his plate.

“Wait, really?” Ian perks up, leaning forward in interest. “You’re looking at schools?”

“I didn’t  _ say  _ anything,” Mickey deflects, but Ian gives him a  _ don’t-bullshit-me-we-lived-together-for-months  _ look that forces him into honesty. “But, yeah,” he mumbles in resignation. “I’ve been thinkin’ about it.” 

“Since when?” Ian inquires.

“Since Mandy mentioned somethin’ about it.”

“What would you major in?” Mike prompts, and Mickey shrugs again.

“Math, probably?” he answers, uncertainly.

“ _ Math? _ ” Amanda repeats skeptically. 

Mickey sets his fork down, defensiveness prickling in his chest. “That so hard to believe?”

Lip and Amanda share matching, patronizing glances. “You don’t look like the type,” Amanda elaborates.

Mickey opens his mouth, prepared to inform Amanda exactly what  _ type  _ she looks like, when Fiona claps her hands together and suggests they have dessert.

“Hey,” Ian whispers to him through the bustle, as they both remain seated. “Let’s get outta here.” 

Mickey raises an eyebrow at him. He has to admit that, in his current mood, given the choice between spending another thirty minutes with the Gallaghers and doing literally anything else, he would choose the latter consistently.

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, they sneak out the back door, after Mickey’s grabbed Ian’s present from where he left it, on the coffee table, and Ian’s disappeared upstairs to retrieve a tiny package of his own and pull on a coat. 

Ian pulls him by the wrist to a broke down van, and something about the cold air and, God help him, the _Christmas Spirit_ , lifts his mood and leaves him nearly giddy. 

Ian practically falls into leaning back against the side of the van, pulling Mickey against him into a smiling kiss, and it’s all Mickey can do not to drop Ian’s gift into the snow with how fucking weak in the knees it makes him. 

The streetlights cast their usual glow, but something about it seems different. Maybe the combination of the Christmas lights and the soft crooning of Bing Crosby from inside the house, maybe the feeling of Ian’s hands locked behind the small of his back. 

“Your family’s kinda shitty,” Mickey comments, when they separate. Mickey leans against the cold metal beside Ian as Ian lights a cigarette.

“Yeah,” Ian sighs, looking up towards the polluted sky. “I love ‘em, though.”

Mickey knows the feeling. Exponentially. 

“Yeah, I talked to mine today, too,” Mickey admits, as he accepts the cigarette. “Fuckin’ pricks.”

“How is everyone?” Ian asks.

“Ig’s got a boyfriend,” Mickey starts, deciding to lead with the most jarring news.

“A  _ boyfriend? _ ” Ian exclaims.

“Yeah. Well, y’know, dumbass won’t  _ admit  _ he’s got a boyfriend, but...we know.” He takes a drag, as he allows Ian to soak it in . “And then Colin,” he strains out with the smoke, “has his own place. Says he loves not babysittin’ our asses anymore.”

“He misses you,” Ian says knowingly, taking the cigarette back.

“‘Course he does. I’m not around for him to yell at on demand, anymore.”

Ian smiles shyly. “I kinda miss how much of an asshole he was to me, sometimes.”

“Yeah, everyone--” Mickey’s voice hitches, and he coughs, to smooth over the silence. “Everyone kinda missed you, too.” 

They exchange a tentative, smiling glance, before Ian lifts the cigarette to his lips and asks, “What about Mandy?”

“I think she’s gettin’ her GED online soon,” Mickey says. “Past that...her boyfriend’s a fuckin’ tool, but I think she knows it. She likes Boston, though, I think.”

“She really wanted to get out of Azurra,” Ian remembers, with a slightly far-away look. “I’m glad she finally did it.” He hands Mickey the cigarette. “Glad you all finally did it.”

Their fingers brush, and the contact holds the electricity of the beginning. The beginning, reborn. And he gazes at Ian, looking young but aged, familiar but new, thrilling but steady, beautiful ad infinitum, and he tries to swallow back the endorphins, to no avail.

“What about you?” Mickey asks, after a second. “What’ve you been up to?”

Ian seems nearly surprised by the question. “Mostly school,” he recounts, after a moment’s thought. “I went back once I was stable on my meds. Kind of late, so I need to catch up.”

“What about after you graduate?” Mickey questions further.  

Ian opens his mouth, crossing his arms across his chest, and then quickly shuts it again, seemingly not sure what to say. “I don’t fuckin’ know,” he admits, following the pause, accepting the cigarette again. “I wanted to go to West Point, before everything, y'know.” He flicks away some ash dejectedly. “And they’re not letting me play basketball, because I’m already so behind, so I can kiss a fuckin’ sports scholarship goodbye.”

Mickey’s grip tightens a bit on Ian’s present, as he tries not to let it all break his fucking heart.

“You ever think about writing, or somethin’?” Mickey suggests.

Ian scoffs out a laugh. “Writing what?”

“You’ve had fuckin’  _ life _ , man.” Mickey reaches for the cigarette one last time, breathing in the smoke and then throwing it to the ground. “You’re talented, too,” he says, soft and tight, on his exhale. 

Ian’s expression grows somber for a second, as he stares at the ground, in thought.

Mickey thinks he’d pay money to get inside his head, for a minute. 

“Fuckin’ cold, man,” Mickey shivers, after a minute of quiet, pulling his coat tighter around him. 

Ian nods, and then tilts his head back towards the van. “Come on.” 

He tugs open the back doors, revealing an open space with a blanket and some weather-worn pictures of Megan Fox. “Carl used to sleep in here,” Ian explains, in response to Mickey’s questioning look. 

“Ah. Classy kid.”

They climb into the van, which is absolutely no warmer than it was outside, and they sit with their backs propped against one side, their legs stretching until their feet touch the other side. (Or, more specifically, until  _ Ian’s  _ feet touch the other side, since Mickey’s legs fall, regrettably, too short.) 

Ian slings an arm around Mickey’s shoulders and it feels, for a second, like they could settle into a rhythm, again. Like maybe it doesn’t have to be a struggle. Like maybe the struggle was the circumstance, and the distance, and the illness. Like maybe they, together, were never the struggle at all. 

Or, maybe, it’s just a placid stretch in an ocean of shifting tides.

Either way, he feels much warmer than before.

“Here,” Mickey says, leaning closer into Ian and depositing his present onto his lap. “Merry Christmas.”

“This is wrapped nice,” Ian observes, extricating himself from Mickey and turning it over in his hands.

“Hidden talent,” Mickey provides vaguely.

The present is a rectangular package, tucked into red wrapping paper with little Christmas trees and topped with a bow. Mickey had, in fact, spent a decent amount of time making sure it didn’t look like pure shit.

“Open it, Gallagher,” Mickey urges, when Ian hesitates. “Before Christmas fuckin’ ends.”

Ian unwraps it, carefully, like he’s reluctant to ruin the wrapping, and it’s not until about thirty seconds later that he’s finally reached what’s inside.

A black, leather-bound notebook, with the constellation of Leo embossed on the front in an antique-looking gold. 

Mickey chews his lip while Ian inspects it, nervous over the sentimentality of it. He clears his throat as Ian opens it, to blank, lined white paper. “I, uh--I read that writing and shit is good for managing…” his voice fails for a second, on account of his sudden dry throat. “Managing bipolar disorder,” he finishes, quickly.

A smile spreads, slowly, on Ian’s face, but whatever he’s thinking, he doesn’t say. He shuts the journal again, and traces the constellation lightly with his forefinger.

“And that’s your star sign’s constellation,” Mickey adds lamely. “Because space is cool, and shit--”

“I’m in love with you,” Ian interrupts him, unrehearsed, brazenly confident.

Mickey’s mouth hangs open, still forming the words of his last sentence, frozen with surprise. 

And he knew, of course he knew, he had read the confession from Ian’s own hand months ago. 

Ian dares to look at him, eyes nearly blue in the quiet light of the long night, and it’s an odd, familiar feeling, to have that blissful terror back again.

He knew. Of course he knew. But there’s something separate and corporeal about the words, said out loud, that makes it feel like he’s learned something for the first time.

They smile at each other, after a moment of thick silence, and Mickey feels young and dumb, again. 

When Ian kisses him, then, short, easy but electric, it feels like they’re on the same page for the first time. Or, at least close to it.

Ian pulls back, and lingers in their connecting gaze, and it is, again, everything Mickey never thought he’d have.

But he’s earned it, he thinks. Been unselfish, and careful, and spiteful of hope for too long.

Ian pulls the small box from his coat pocket, unwrapped and navy blue, and hands it to Mickey.

“Your turn,” he says, fracturing the moment only slightly, replacing his arm around Mickey’s shoulders.

Mickey picks the box up gingerly, and surmises it must be a jewelry box. “You proposing?” Mickey teases, laughing when Ian smacks him in the arm.

“Just open it, asshole,” Ian responds, and Mickey complies, still with a soft grin.

Inside, cushioned by cotton, is a delicate silver pendant, depicting a metallic ripple in the ocean, on a thin leather string. 

“I got it for myself, in Azurra, the day I left,” Ian explains, as Mickey pulls it delicately from the box. “But, I don’t really need a souvenir when you’re here, y’know?”

Mickey runs a thumb over the raised surface of the pendant, and allows himself to think of home, for a second.

“You miss it?” Ian asks, softly.

He thinks of the ocean. Cracked sidewalks. Splinters on the boardwalk. His Ma, his siblings.

He thinks of Ian, and the long absence thereof.

_ Not as much as I missed you,  _ he thinks.

“Yeah,” he settles on, reaching up to intertwine their fingers. “But I ain’t goin’ back.”

Ian hums his contentment with that answer, leaning in to place a kiss to Mickey’s cheek. 

They feel like a new set of people, together, in their new beginning. He finds himself grasping for the most vivid parts of their past, so as not to lose the integrity of what they were. What they are. 

“How are you doin’?” he asks, resting his arm on Ian’s leg, hand falling on his knee. “With everything with...you know.” He doesn’t dare say Gabe’s name. It’s not his place, yet.

Ian’s grip on Mickey’s hand tightens. “Gabe?”

“Yeah. Him.”

Ian sniffs, and traces the ‘F’ on Mickey’s left ring finger. “It’s, uh…” He laughs bitterly. “Sometimes I think God takes everything he scrapped as someone else’s big childhood trauma and dumps it on me, y’know? Like, Ian Gallagher--” he pauses for emphasis, his eyes shining. “--human landfill.” 

“None of that shit is your fault, though, y’know,” Mickey reminds him, thumb tracing lightly against the grain of the denim covering his knee.

Mickey doesn’t know too much about shit like this. Doesn’t know too much about bipolar disorder, or the complexity of rape, but he does know that thinking any of it is Ian’s fault is bullshit.

Ian’s quiet for a stretch, mind miles away. “I just feel,” he goes on, “like if I never said yes in the first place, it never would’ve happened.”

“You think he wouldn’t’ve pulled a fuckin’ gun on you if you said no the first time?” Mickey responds incredulously. “He was psychotic, Ian,” he dictates, when Ian won’t meet his eye. “You were fuckin’ seventeen years old. And you have a fuckin’...illness. Even when you said yes, it wasn’t your fault.”

“It just feels like,” Ian strains, “nothin’ can be special again, y’know? Like...damaged goods.” He shakes his head slightly. “Like, fuckin’ unlovable.”

“Hey,” Mickey protests immediately. “ _ I  _ love you, okay?”

Ian raises his head, then, to look at Mickey with utter rapt sincerity.

And Mickey falls, head first and eyes wide, into repeating his own confession. “I-- _ fuck, _ I love you. And ain’t nothin’--” he pauses, letting go of Ian’s hand, to reach over and brush back a loose strand of Ian’s hair gently. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna change that.”

When their lips meet again, Mickey savors the taste: smoke and sea salt and all the fucking time in the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow! i can't believe this is the last time i'm going to be writing in this universe. honestly, it feels like i'm saying goodbye to an old friend for good or something. thank you so much to everyone for all your encouraging words and for reading my word vomit, it really really means a lot and this has been a good release through some tough shit in my life.  
> come find me on tumblr! gll-vch.tumblr.com OR grooveyle.tumblr.com  
> i'm not completely against (see: actually desperate to) continuing to write in this universe, so if you feel like you want something more from these characters, send an ask my way! i'll see what i can do :)  
> (by the way https://www.etsy.com/listing/98083134/tiny-silver-necklace-pendant-ocean?ref=market is the exact pendant ian gave mickey if you care)  
> see you lovely people in the next universe!


End file.
